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DATE 

DUE  RET‘ 

DATE 

DUE  RET' 

t  T8c 

#  V  ' 

. 


.1 


. 


F)ortu0  Inclusus  p  #  and  &  # 
Miscellaneous  John  Ruskin 


JMernll  and  Bahcr 
publtebcre  Ntw 
*^ork 


DEDICATED 

WITH  GRATEFUL  THANKS  TO  MY  DEAR  FRIENDS 

PROFESSOR  RUSKIN 

AND 

ALBERT  FLEMING. 


S.  B. 


. 


. 


CONTENTS, 


Hortus  Inclusus.  Messages  from  the  Wood  to  the  Gar¬ 
den,  sent  in  Happy  Days  to  the  Sister  Ladies  of  the 
Thwaite,  Coniston, . 

In  Montibus  Sanctis.  Studies  of  Mountain  Form  and  of 
?ps  Visible  Causes, . 

CtELI  En ARRANT.  STUDIES  OF  CLOUD  FORM  AND  OF  ITS  VlSI 
ble  Causes, . 

Notes  on  Some  of  the  Principal  Pictures  Exhibited  in 
the  Rooms  of  the  Royal  Academy,  1875, . 

Notes  by  Mr.  Ruskin  on  Samuel  Prout  and  William 
Hunt,  . 

Catalogue  of  TnE  Drawings  and  Sketches  of  J.  M.  W. 
Turner,  R.A., . 

Guide  to  the  Principal  Pictures  in  the  Academy  of  Fine 
Arts  at  Venice, . 


PAGE 

5 

107 

149 

169 

211 

295 


341 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS 


MESSAGES  FROM  THE  WOOD  TO  TIIE  GARDEH, 


SENT  IN  HAPPY  DAYS  TO  THE 

SISTER  LADIES  OF  THE  TH WAITE,  CONISTON, 


BY  THEIR  THANKFUL  FRIEND 


JOHN  RUSKIN,  LL.D 


i 

' 


PREFACE. 


The  ladies  to  whom  these  letters  were  written  have  been, 
throughout  their  brightly  tranquil  lives,  at  once  sources  and 
loadstones  of  all  good  to  the  village  in  which  they  had  their 
homes,  and  to  all  loving  people  who  cared  for  the  village  and 
its  vale  and  secluded  lake,  and  whatever  remained  in  them  or 
around  of  the  former  peace,  beauty,  and  pride  of  English 
Shepherd  Land. 

Sources  they  have  been  of  good,  like  one  of  its  mountain 
springs,  ever  to  be  found  at  need.  They  did  not  travel ;  they 
did  not  go  up  to  London  in  its  season ;  they  did  not  receive  idle 
visitors  to  jar  or  waste  their  leisure  in  the  waning  year.  The 
poor  and  the  sick  could  find  them  always  ;  or  rather,  they 
watched  for  and  prevented  all  poverty  and  pain  that  care  or 
tenderness  could  relieve  or  heal.  Loadstones  they  were,  as 
steadily  bringing  the  light  of  gentle  and  wise  souls  about 
them  as  the  crest  of  their  guardian  mountain  gives  pause 
to  the  morning  clouds  ;  in  themselves  they  were  types  of 
perfect  womanhood  in  its  constant  happiness,  queens  alike  of 
their  own  hearts  and  of  a  Paradise  in  which  they  knew  the 
names  and  sympathized  with  the  spirits  of  every  living 
creature  that  God  had  made  to  play  therein,  or  to  blossom  in 
its  sunshine  or  shade. 

They  had  lost  their  dearly-loved  younger  sister,  Margaret, 
before  I  knew  them.  Mary  and  Susie,  alike  in  benevolence, 
serenity,  and  practical  judgment,  were  yet  widely  different, 
nay,  almost  contrary,  in  tone  and  impulse  of  intellect.  Both 
of  them  capable  of  understanding  whatever  women  should 
know,  the  elder  was  yet  chiefly  interested  in  the  course  of 


10 


preface. 


immediate  English  business,  policy,  and  progressive  science, 
while  Susie  lived  an  aerial  and  enchanted  life,  possessing  all 
the  highest  joys  of  imagination,  while  she  yielded  to  none  of 
its  deceits,  sicknesses,  or  errors.  She  saw  and  felt,  and  believed 
all  good,  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  was  to  be,  in  the  reality 
and  eternity  of  its  goodness,  with  the  acceptance  and  the  hope 
of  a  child  ;  the  least  things  were  treasures  to  her,  and  her 
moments  fuller  of  joy  than  some  people’s  days. 

What  she  has  been  to  me,  in  the  days  and  years  when  other 
friendship  has  been  failing,  and  others’  “loving,  mere  folly,” 
the  reader  will  enough  see  from  these  letters,  written  certainly 
for  her  only,  but  from  which  she  has  permitted  my  Master  of 
the  Rural  Industries  at  Loughrigg,  Albert  Fleming,  to  choose 
what  he  thinks,  among  the  tendrils  of  clinging  thought,  and 
mossy  cups  for  dew  in  the  Garden  of  Herbs  where  Love  is, 
may  be  trusted  to  the  memorial  sympathy  of  the  readers  of 
“  Frondes  Agrestes.” 

J.  R. 

Brantwood,  June,  1887. 


mTEODUOTIOlsr. 


Often  during  those  visits  to  the  Thwaite  which  have  grown 
to  be  the  best-spent  hours  of  my  later  years,  I  have  urged  my 
dear  friend,  Miss  Beever,  to  open  to  the  larger  world  the  pleas¬ 
ant  paths  of  this  her  Garden  Enclosed.  The  inner  circle  of  her 
friends  knew  that  she  had  a  goodly  store  of  Mr.  Ruskin’s  let¬ 
ters,  extending  over  many  years.  She  for  her  part  had  long 
desired  to  share  with  others  the  pleasure  these  letters  had 
given  her,  but  she  shrank  from  the  fatigue  of  selecting  and 
arranging  them.  It  was,  therefore,  with  no  small  feeling  of 
satisfaction  that  I  drove  home  from  the  Thwaite  one  day  in 
February  last  with  a  parcel  containing  nearly  two  thousand 
of  these  treasured  letters.  I  was  gladdened  also  by  generous 
permission,  both  from  Brantwood  and  the  Thwaite,  to  choose 
what  I  liked  best  for  publication.  The  letters  themselves  are 
the  fruit  of  the  most  beautiful  friendship  I  have  ever  been 
permitted  to  witness,  a  friendship  so  unique  in  some  aspects 
of  it,  so  sacred  in  all,  that  I  may  only  give  it  the  praise  of  si¬ 
lence.  I  count  myself  happy  to  have  been  allowed  to  throw 
open  to  all  wise  and  quiet  souls  the  portals  of  this  Ar- 
mida’s  Garden,  where  there  are  no  spells  save  those  woven  by 
love,  and  no  magic  save  that  of  grace  and  kindliness.  Here 
my  pleasant  share  in  this  little  book  would  have  ended,  but 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  desired  me  to  add  a  few  words,  giving  my 
own  description  of  Susie,  and  speaking  of  my  relationship  to 
them  both.  To  him  I  owe  the  guidance  of  my  life — all  its 
best  impulses,  all  its  worthiest  efforts  ;  to  her  some  of  its 
happiest  hours,  and  the  blessings  alike  of  incentive  and 
reproof.  In  reading  over  Mr.  Ruskin’s  Preface,  I  note  that, 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


either  by  grace  of  purpose  or  happy  chance,  he  has  left  me 
one  point  untouched  in  our  dear  friend’s  character.  Her 
letters  inserted  here  give  some  evidence  of  it,  but  I  should  like 
to  place  on  record  how  her  intense  delight  in  sweet  and 
simple  things  has  blossomed  into  a  kind  of  mental  frolic  and 
dainty  wit,  so  that  even  now,  in  the  calm  autumn  of  her  days, 
her  friends  are  not  only  lessoned  by  her  ripened  wisdom,  but 
cheered  and  recreated  by  her  quaint  and  sprightly  humor. 

In  the  Royal  Order  of  Gardens,  as  Bacon  puts  it,  there  was 
always  a  quiet  resting-place  called  the  Pleasaunce  ;  there  tho 
daisies  grew  unchecked,  and  the  grass  was  ever  the  greenest. 
Such  a  Pleasaunce  do  these  Letters  seem  to  me.  Here  and 
there,  indeed,  there  are  shadows  on  the  grass,  but  no  shadow 
ever  falls  between  the  two  dear  friends  who  walk  together 
hand  in  hand  along  its  pleasant  paths.  So  may  they  walk  in 
peace  till  they  stand  at  the  gate  of  another  Garden,  where 


“  Co’  fiori  eterni,  eterno  il  frutto  dura.” 

Neaxjm  Crag, 

Loughrigg, 

Ambleside. 


A.  F. 


HORTUS  INOLUSTTS. 


THE  SACRISTAN’S  CELL. 

Assisi,  14 th  April,  1874. 

I  got  to-day  your  lovely  letter  of  the  6th,  but  I  never  knew 
my  Susie  could  be  such  a  naughty  little  girl  before ;  to  burn 
her  pretty  story  *  instead  of  sending  it  to  me.  It  would  have 
come  to  me  so  exactly  in  the  right  place  here,  where  St. 
Francis  made  the  grasshopper  (cicada,  at  least)  sing  to  him 
upon  his  hand,  and  preached  to  the  birds,  and  made  the  wolf 
go  its  rounds  every  day  as  regularly  as  any  Franciscan  friar, 
to  ask  for  a  little  contribution  to  its  modest  dinner.  The  Bee 
and  Narcissus  would  have  delighted  to  talk  in  this  enchanted 
air. 

Yes,  that  is  really  very  pretty  of  Dr.  John  to  inscribe  your 
books  so,  and  it’s  so  like  him.  How  these  kind  people  under¬ 
stand  things !  And  that  bit  of  his  about  the  child  is  wholly 
lovely  ;  I  am  so  glad  you  copied  it. 

I  often  think  of  vou,  and  of  Coniston  and  Brantwood. 
You  will  see,  in  the  May  Fors,  reflections  upon  the  tempta¬ 
tions  to  the  life  of  a  Franciscan. 

There  are  two  monks  here,  one  the  sacristan  who  has 
charge  of  the  entire  church,  and  is  responsible  for  its  treas¬ 
ures  ;  the  other  exercising  what  authority  is  left  to  the  con¬ 
vent  among  the  people  of  the  town.  They  are  both  so  good 
and  innocent  and  sweet,  one  can’t  pity  them  enough.  For 
this  time  in  Italy  is  just  like  the  Reformation  in  Scotland,  with 


*  The  Bee  and  Narcissus. 


14 


UORTJJS  INCLUSUS. 


only  the  difference  that  the  Reform  movement  is  carried  on 
here  simply  for  the  sake  of  what  money  can  be  got  by  Church 
confiscation.  And  these  two  brothers  are  living  by  indul¬ 
gence,  as  the  Abbot  in  the  Monastery  of  St.  Mary’s  in  the 
Regent  Moray’s  time. 

The  people  of  the  village,  however,  are  all  true  to  their 
faith  ;  it  is  only  the  governing  body  which  is  modern-infidel 
and  radical.  The  population  is  quite  charming — a  word  of 
kindness  makes  them  as  bright  as  if  you  brought  them  news 
of  a  friend.  All  the  same,  it  does  not  do  to  offend  them ; 
Monsieur  Cavalcasella,  who  is  expecting  the  Government 
order  to  take  the  Tabernacle  from  the  Sanctuary  of  St. 
Francis,  cannot,  it  is  said,  go  out  at  night  with  safety.  He 
decamped  the  day  before  I  came,  having  some  notion,  I  fancy, 
that  I  would  make  his  life  a  burden  to  him,  if  he  didn’t,  by 
day,  as  much  as  it  was  in  peril  by  night.  I  promise  myself  a 
month  of  very  happy  time  here  (happy  for  me,  I  mean)  when 
I  return  in  May. 

The  sacristan  gives  me  my  coffee  for  lunch,  in  his  own  little 
cell,  looking  out  on  the  olive  woods ;  then  he  tells  me  stories 
of  conversions  and  miracles,  and  then  perhaps  we  go  into  the 
sacristy  and  have  a  reverent  little  poke  out  of  relics.  Fancy 
a  great  carved  cupboard  in  a  vaulted  chamber  full  of  most 
precious  things  (the  box  which  the  Holy  Virgin’s  veil  used  to 
be  kept  in,  to  begin  with),  and  leave  to  rummage  in  it  at  will ! 
Things  that  are  only  shown  twice  in  the  year  or  so,  with 
fumigation !  all  the  congregation  on  their  knees  ;  and  the 
sacristan  and  I  having  a  great  heap  of  them  on  the  table  at 
once,  like  a  dinner  service  !  I  really  looked  with  great  respect 
at  St.  Francis’s  old  camel-hair  dress. 

I  am  obliged  to  go  to  Rome  to-morrow,  however,  and  to 
Naples  on  Saturday,  My  witch  of  Sicily  *  expects  me  this 
day  week,  and  she’s  going  to  take  me  such  lovely  drives,  and 
talks  of  “excursions  ”  which  I  see  by  the  map  are  thirty  miles 
away.  I  wonder  if  she  thinks  me  so  horribly  old  that  it’s 
quite  proper.  It  will  be  very  nice  if  she  does,  but  not  liatter- 


*  Mias  Amy  Yule.  See  “  Pneterita,”  Vol.  III.,  Chap.  vii. 


non T US  INOLUSUS. 


15 


ing.  I  know  her  mother  can’t  go  with  her,  I  suppose  her 
maid  will.  If  she  wants  any  other  chaperone  I  won’t  go. 

She’s  really  very  beautiful,  I  believe,  to  some  people’s 
tastes  (I  shall  be  horribly  disappointed  if  she  isn’t,  in  her  own 
dark  style),  and  she  writes,  next  to  Susie,  the  loveliest  letters 
I  ever  get. 

Now,  Susie,  mind,  you’re  to  be  a  very  good  child  while  I’m 
away,  and  never  to  burn  any  more  stories  ;  and  above  all, 
you’re  to  write  me  just  what  comes  into  your  head,  and  ever 
to  believe  me  your  loving  J.  R 


Naples,  2 d  May ,  1874. 

I  heard  of  your  great  sorrow  *  from  Joan  f  six  days  ago,  and 
have  not  been  able  to  write  since.  Nothing  silences  me  so 
much  as  sorrow,  and  for  this  of  yours  I  have  no  com¬ 
fort.  I  write  only  that  you  may  know  that  I  am  think¬ 
ing  of  you,  and  would  help  you  if  I  could.  And  I  write  to¬ 
day  because  your  lovely  letters  and  your  lovely  old  age  have 
been  forced  into  my  thoughts  often  by  dreadful  contrast  dur¬ 
ing  these  days  in  Italy.  You  who  are  so  purely  and  brightly 
happy  in  all  natural  and  simple  things,  seem  now  to  belong 
to  another  and  a  younger  world.  And  your  letters  have  been 
to  me  like  the  pure  air  of  Yewdale  Crags  breathed  among  the 
Pontine  Marshes  ;  but  you  must  not  think  I  am  ungrateful 
for  them  when  I  can’t  answer.  You  can  have  no  idea  how 
impossible  it  is  for  me  to  do  all  the  work  necessary  even  for 
memory  of  the  things  I  came  here  to  see ;  how  much  escapes 
me,  how  much  is  done  in  a  broken  and  weary  way.  I  am  the 
only  author  on  art  who  does  the  work  of  illustration  with  his 
own  hand  ;  the  only  one  therefore — and  I  am  not  insolent  in 
saying  this — who  has  learned  his  business  thoroughly  ;  but 
after  a  day’s  drawing  I  assure  you  one  cannot  sit  down  to 
write  unless  it  be  the  merest  nonsense  to  please  Joanie. 
Believe  it  or  not,  there  is  no  one  of  my  friends  whom  I  write 
so  scrupulously  to  as  to  you.  You  may  be  vexed  at  this, 


*  The  death  of  Miss  Margaret  Beever. 
f  Mrs,  Arthur  Seyern. 


16 


II  OUT  US  INCIUSUS. 


but  indeed  I  can’t  but  try  to  write  carefully  in  answer  to  all 
your  kind  words,  and  so  sometimes  I  can’t  at  all.  I  must  tell 
you,  however,  to-day,  wliat  1  saw  in  the  Pompeian  frescoes — 
the  great  characteristic  of  falling  Rome,  in  her  furious  desire 
of  pleasure,  and  brutal  incapability  of  it.  The  walls  of 
Pompeii  are  covered  with  paintings  meant  only  to  give  pleas¬ 
ure,  but  nothing  they  represent  is  beautiful  or  delightful,  and 
yesterday,  among  other  calumniated  and  caricatured  birds,  I 
saw  one  of  my  Susie’s  pets,  a  peacock  ;  and  he  had  only  eleven 
eyes  in  his  tail.  Fancy  the  feverish  wretchedness  of  the 
humanity  which,  in  mere  pursuit  of  pleasure  or  power,  had 
reduced  itself  to  see  no  more  than  eleven  eyes  in  a  peacock’s 
tail !  What  were  the  Cyclops  to  this  ? 

I  hope  to  get  to  Rome  this  evening,  and  to  be  there 
settled  for  some  time,  and  to  have  quieter  hours  for  my 
letters. 


Rome,  23d  May ,  1874. 

A  number  of  business  letters  and  the  increasing  instinct 
for  work  here  as  time  shortens,  have  kept  me  too  long  from 
even  writing  a  mere  mamma-note  to  you  ;  though  not  without 
thought  of  you  daily. 

I  have  your  last  most  lovely  lino  about  your  sister — and  giv¬ 
ing  me  that  most  touching  fact  about  poor  Dr.  John  Brown, 
which  I  am  grieved  and  yet  thankful  to  know,  that  I  may 
better  still  reverence  his  unfailing  kindness  and  quick  sym¬ 
pathy.  I  have  a  quite  wonderful  letter  from  him  about  you  ; 
but  I  will  not  tell  you  what  he  says,  only  it  is  so  very ,  very 
true,  and  so  very,  very  pretty,  you  can’t  think. 

I  have  written  to  my  bookseller  to  find  for  you,  and  send,  a 
complete  edition  of  “  Modern  Painters,”  if  findable.  If  not,  I 
will  make  my  assistant  send  you  down  my  own  fourth  and  fifth 
volumes,  which  you  can  keep  till  I  come  for  them  in  the  autumn. 

There  is  nothing  now  in  the  year  but  autumn  and  winter. 
I  really  begin  to  think  there  is  some  terrible  change  of  climate 
coming  upon  the  world  for  its  sin,  like  another  deluge.  It 
Mill  have  its  rainbow,  I  suppose,  after  its  manner — promising 
not  to  darken  the  world  again,  and  then  not  to  drown. 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


17 


Rome,  24 th  May ,  1874  ( Whit- Sunday). 

I  have  to-day,  to  make  tlie  day  whiter  for  me,  your  love¬ 
ly  letter  of  the  14th,  telling  me  your  age.  I  am  so  glad  it 
is  no  more  ;  you  are  only  thirteen  years  older  than  I,  and 
much  more  able  to  be  my  sister  than  mamma,  and  I  hope  you 
will  have  many  years  of  youth  yet.  I  think  I  must  tell  you 
in  return  for  this  letter  what  Dr.  John  Brown  said,  or  part  of 
it  at  least.  He  said  you  had  the  playfulness  of  a  lamb  with¬ 
out  its  selfishness.  I  think  that  perfect  as  far  as  it  goes. 
Of  course  my  Susie’s  wise  and  grave  gifts  must  be  told  of 
afterward.  There  is  no  one  I  know,  or  have  known,  so  well 
able  as  you  are  to  be  in  a  degree  what  my  mother  was  to  mo. 
In  this  chief  way  (as  well  as  many  other  ways)  (the  puzzle¬ 
ment  I  have  had  to  force  that  sentence  into  grammar !),  that 
I  have  had  the  same  certainty  of  giving  you  pleasure  by  a 
few  words  and  by  any  little  account  of  what  I  am  doing. 
But  then  you  know  I  have  just  got  out  of  the  way  of  doing 
as  I  am  bid,  and  unless  you  can  scold  me  back  into  that,  you 
can’t  give  me  the  sense  of  support. 

Tell  me  more  about  yourself  first,  and  how  those  years 
came  to  be  “  lost.”  I  am  not  sure  that  they  were  ;  though  I 
am  very  far  from  holding  the  empty  theory  of  compensation  ; 
but  much  of  the  slighter  pleasure  you  lost  then  is  evidently 
still  open  to  you,  fresh  all  the  more  from  having  been  for  a 
time  withdrawn. 

The  Roman  peasants  are  very  gay  to-day,  with  roses  in  their 
hair  ;  legitimately  and  honorably  decorated,  and  looking 
lovely.  Oh  me,  if  they  had  a  few  Susies  to  take  human  care 
of  them,  what  a  glorious  people  they  would  be  ! 


THE  LOST  CHURCH  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 

Rome,  2d  June ,  1874. 

Ah,  if  you  were  but  among  the  marbles  here,  though  there 
are  none  finer  than  that  you  so  strangely  discerned  in  my 
study  ;  but  they  are  as  a  white  company  innumerable,  ghost 
after  ghost.  And  how  you  would  rejoice  in  them  and  in  a 
2 


18 


II  OUT  US  I  N  CL  US  US. 


thousand  things  besides,  to  which  I  am  dead,  from  having 
seen  too  much  or  worked  too  painfully — or,  worst  of  all,  lost 
the  hope  which  gives  all  life. 

Last  Sunday  I  was  in  a  lost  church  found  again — a  church 
of  the  second  or  third  century,  dug  in  a  green  hill  of  the 
Campagna,  built  underground  ; — its  secret  entrance  like  a 
sand-martin’s  nest.  Such  the  temple  of  the  Lord,  as  the 
King  Solomon  of  that  time  had  to  build  it ;  not  “  the  moun¬ 
tains  of  the  Lord’s  house  shall  be  established  above  the  hills,” 
but  the  cave  of  the  Lord’s  house  as  the  fox’s  hole,  beneath 
them. 

And  here,  now  lighted  by  the  sun  for  the  first  time  (for  they 
are  still  digging  the  earth  from  the  steps),  are  the  marbles  of 
those  early  Christian  days  ;  the  first  efforts  of  their  new  hope 
to  show  itself  in  enduring  record,  the  new  hope  of  a  Good 
Shepherd  ; — there  they  carved  Him,  with  a  spring  flowing  at 
His  feet,  and  round  Him  the  cattle  of  the  Campagna  in  which 
they  had  dug  their  church,  the  very  self-same  goats  which 
this  morning  have  been  trotting  past  my  window  through  *he 
most  populous  streets  of  Itome,  innocently  following  their 
shepherd,  tinkling  their  bells,  and  shaking  their  long  spiral 
horns  and  white  beards  ;  the  very  same  dew-lapped  cattle 
which  were  that  Sunday  morning  feeding  on  the  hillside  above, 
carved  on  the  tomb-marbles  sixteen  hundred  years  ago. 

How  you  would  have  liked  to  see  it,  Susie  ! 

And  now  to-day  I  am  going  to  work  in  an  eleventh  century 
church  of  quite  proud  and  victorious  Christianity,  with  its 
grand  bishops  and  saints  lording  it  over  Italy.  The  bishop’s 
throne  all  marble  and  mosaic  of  precious  colors  and  of  gold, 
high  under  the  vaulted  roof  at  the  end  behind  the  altar  ;  and 
line  upon  line  of  pillars  of  massive  porphyry  and  marble, 
gathered  out  of  the  ruins  of  the  temples  of  the  great  race  who 
had  persecuted  them,  till  they  had  said  to  the  hills,  Cover  us, 
like  the  wicked.  And  then  their  proud  time  came,  and  their 
enthronement  on  the  seven  hills ;  and  now,  what  is  to  be  their 
fate  once  more  ? — of  pope  and  cardinal  and  dome,  Peter’s  or 
Paul’s  by  name  only, — “My  house,  no  more  a  house  of 
prayer,  but  a  den  of  thieves/- 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


19 


I  can’t  write  any  more  this  morning.  Oh  me,  if  one  could 
only  write  and  draw  all  one  wanted,  and  have  our  Susies  and 
be  young  again,  oneself  and  they  !  (As  if  there  were  two 
Susies,  or  could  be  ! 

Ever  my  one  Susie’s  very  loving,  J.  Ruskin. 

I  have  sent  word  to  my  father’s  old  head-clerk,  now  a  great 
merchant  himself,  to  send  you  a  little  case  of  that  champagne. 
Please  like  it. 


REGRETS. 

Assisi,  June  9 th. 

Yes,  I  am  a  little  oppressed  just  now  with  overwork,  nor  is 
this  avoidable.  I  am  obliged  to  leave  all  my  drawings  un¬ 
finished  as  the  last  days  come,  and  the  point  possible  of  ap¬ 
proximate  completion  fatally  contracts,  every  hour,  to  a  more 
ludicrous  and  warped  mockery  of  the  hope  in  which  one  be¬ 
gan.  It  is  impossible  not  to  work  against  time,  and  that  is 
killing.  It  is  not  labor  itself,  but  competitive,  anxious,  dip* 
appointed  labor  that  dries  one’s  soul  out. 

But  don’t  be  frightened  about  me,  you  sweet  Susie.  I 
know  when  I  must  stop  ;  forgive  and  pity  me  only,  because 
sometimes,  nay  often  my  letter  (or  word)  to  Susie  must  be 
sacrificed  to  the  last  effort  on  one’s  drawing. 

The  letter  to  one’s  Susie  should  be  a  rest,  do  you  think  ? 
It  is  always  more  or  less  comforting,  but  not  rest ;  it  means 
further  employment  of  the  already  extremely  strained  sensa¬ 
tional  power.  What  one  really  wants  !  I  believe  the  only 
true  restorative  is  the  natural  one,  the  actual  presence  of  one’s 
“  helpmeet.”  The  far  worse  than  absence  of  mine  reverses  rest, 
and  what  is  more,  destroys  one’s  power  of  receiving  from 
others  or  giving. 

How  much  love  of  mine  have  others  lost,  because  that  poor 
sick  child  would  not  have  the  part  of  love  that  belonged  to  her  ! 

I  am  very  anxious  about  your  eyes  too.  For  any  favor 
don’t  write  more  extracts  just  now.  The  books  are  yours 
forever  and  a  day — no  loan  ;  enjoy  any  bits  that  you  find 
enjoyable,  but  don’t  copy  just  now. 


20 


nORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


I  left  Home  yesterday,  and  am  on  my  way  home  ;  but, 
alas  !  might  as  well  be  on  my  way  home  from  Cochin  China, 
for  any  chance  I  have  of  speedily  arriving.  Meantime  your 
letters  will  reach  me  here  with  speed,  and  will  be  a  great 
comfort  to  me,  if  they  don’t  fatigue  you. 


“FRONDES  AGRESTES.” 

Perugia,  12 th  June. 

I  am  more  and  more  pleased  at  the  thought  of  this  gathering 
of  yours,  and  soon  expect  to  tell  you  what  the  bookseller  says. 

Meantime  I  want  you  to  think  of  the  form  the  collection 
should  take  with  reference  to  my  proposed  re-publication.  I 
mean  to  take  the  botany,  the  geology,  the  Turner  defence,  and 
the  general  art  criticism  of  “  Modern  Painters,”  as  four  separate 
books,  cutting  out  nearly  all  the  preaching,  and  a  good  deal 
of  the  sentiment.  Now  what  you  find  pleasant  and  helpful  to 
you  of  general  maxim  or  reflection,  must  be  of  some  value  ; 
and  I  think  therefore  that  your  selection  will  just  do  for  me 
what  no  other  reader  could  have  done,  least  of  all  I  myself  ; 
keep  together,  that  is  to  say,  what  may  be  right  and  true  of 
those  youthful  thoughts.  I  should  like  you  to  add  anything 
that  specially  pleases  you,  of  whatever  kind  ;  but  to  keep  the 
notion  of  your  book  being  the  didactic  one  as  opposed  to  the 
other  picturesque  and  scientific  volumes,  will  I  think  help  you 
in  choosing  between  passages  when  one  or  other  is  to  be 
rejected. 


HOW  I  FELL  AMONG  THIEVES. 

Assisi,  17 th  June. 

I  have  been  having  a  bad  time  lately,  and  have  no  heart  to 
write  to  you.  Very  difficult  and  melancholy  work,  deciphering 
what  remains  of  a  great  painter  among  stains  of  ruin  and 
blotches  of  repair,  of  five  hundred  years’  gathering.  It  makes 
me  sadder  than  idleness,  which  is  saying  much. 

I  was  greatly  flattered  and  petted  by  a  saying  in  one  of 
your  last  letters,  about  the  difficulty  I  had  in  unpacking  my 


nORTUS  INGLUSU8 . 


21 


mind.  That  is  true ;  one  of  my  chief  troubles  at  present  is 
with  the  quantity  of  things  I  want  to  say  at  once.  But  you 
don’t  know  how  I  find  things  I  laid  by  carefully  in  it,  all 
mouldy  and  moth-eaten  when  I  take  them  out ;  and  what  a 
lot  of  mending  and  airing  they  need,  and  what  a  wearisome 
and  bothering  business  it  is  compared  to  the  early  packing, — 
one  used  to  be  so  proud  to  get  things  into  the  corners  neatly  ! 

I  have  been  failing  in  my  drawings,  too,  and  I’m  in  a 
horrible  inn  kept  by  a  Garibaldian  bandit ;  and  the  various 
sorts  of  disgusting  dishes  sent  up  to  look  like  a  dinner,  and 
to  be  charged  for,  are  a  daily  increasing  horror  and  amaze¬ 
ment  to  me.  They  succeed  in  getting  everything  bad  ;  no 
exertion,  no  invention,  could  produce  such  badness,  I  believe, 
anywhere  else.  The  hills  are  covered  for  leagues  with  olive- 
trees,  and  the  oil’s  bad  ;  there  are  no  such  lovely  cattle  else¬ 
where  in  the  world,  and  the  butter’s  bad  ;  half  the  country 
people  are  shepherds,  but  there’s  no  mutton ;  half  the  old 
women  w’alk  about  with  a  pig  tied  to  their  waists,  but  there’s 
no  pork  ;  the  vine  grows  wild  anywhere,  and  the  wine  would 
make  my  teeth  drop  out  of  my  head  if  I  took  a  glass  of  it  ; 
there  are  no  strawberries,  no  oranges,  no  melons,  the  cherries 
are  as  hard  as  their  stones,  the  beans  only  good  for  horses, 
or  Jack  and  the  beanstalk,  and  this  is  the  size  of  the  biggest 
asparagus — 


I  live  here  in  a  narrow  street  ten  feet  wide  only,  winding 
up  a  hill,  and  it  was  full  this  morning  of  sheep  as  close  as 
they  could  pack,  at  least  a  thousand,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach, — tinkle  tinkle,  bleat  bleat,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 


IN  PARADISE. 


Assisi,  Sacristan’s  Cell, 

25 th  June. 


This  letter  is  all  upside  dowm,  and  this  first  page  written 
last  ;  for  I  didn’t  like  something  I  had  written  about  myself 


last  night  when  I  was  tired,  and  have  torn  it  off. 


22 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


That  star  you  saw  beat  like  a  heart  must  have  been  a  dog 
star.  A  planet  would  not  have  twinkled.  Far  mightier,  he, 
than  any  planet  ;  burning  with  his  own  planetary  host  doubt¬ 
less  round  him  ;  and,  on  some  speckiest  of  the  specks  of 
them,  evangelical  persons  thinking  our  sun  was  made  for 
them. 

Ah,  Susie,  I  do  not  pass,  unthought  of,  the  many  sorrows 
of  which  you  kindly  tell  me,  to  show  me — for  that  is  in  your 
heart — how  others  have  suffered  also. 

But,  Susie,  you  expect  to  see  your  Margaret  again,  and 
you  will  be  happy  with  her  in  heaven.  I  wanted  my  Rosie 
here.  In  heaven  I  mean  to  go  and  talk  to  Pythagoras  and 
Socrates  and  Valerius  Publicola.  I  shan’t  care  a  bit  for  Rosie 
there,  she  needn’t  think  it.  What  will  grey  eyes  and  red 
cheeks  be  good  for  there  ? 

These  pious  sentiments  are  all  written  in  my  sacristan’s  cell. 

Now,  Susie,  mind,  though  you’re  only  eight  years  old,  you 
must  try  to  fancy  you’re  ten  or  eleven,  and  attend  to  what  I 
say. 

This  extract  book  *  of  yours  will  be  most  precious  in  its 
help  to  me,  provided  it  is  kept  within  somewhat  narrow  limits. 
As  soon  as  it  is  done  I  mean  to  have  it  published  in  a  strong 
and  pretty  but  cheap  form,  and  it  must  not  be  too  bulky. 
Consider,  therefore,  not  only  what  you  like,  but  how  far  and 
with  whom  each  bit  is  likely  to  find  consent  and  service. 
You  will  have  to  choose  perhaps,  after  a  little  while,  among 
what  you  have  already  chosen.  I  mean  to  leave  it  wholly  in 
your  hands  ;  it  is  to  be  Susie’s  choice  of  my  writings. 

Don’t  get  into  a  flurry  of  responsibility,  but  don’t  at  once 
write  down  all  you  have  a  mind  to  ;  I  know  you’ll  find  a  good 
deal !  for  you  are  exactly  in  sympathy  with  me  in  all  things. 


Assisi,  9i 'h  July ,  1874. 

Your  lovely  letters  are  always  a  comfort  to  me  ;  and  not 
least  when  you  tell  me  you  are  sad.  You  would  be  far  less  in 


*  Frondes  Agrestea 


IIORTUS  INCLUSU8. 


23 


sympathy  with  me  if  you  were  not,  and  in  the  “  everything 
right  ”  humor  of  some,  even  of  some  really  good  and  kind 
persons,  whose  own  matters  are  to  their  mind,  and  who  un¬ 
derstand  by  “Providence”  the  power  which  particularly  takes 
care  of  them.  This  favoritism  which  goes  so  sweetly  and 
pleasantly  down  with  so  many  pious  people  is  the  chief  of  all 
stumbling-blocks  to  me.  I  must  pray  for  everybody  or  no¬ 
body,  and  can’t  get  into  any  conceptions  of  relation  between 
Heaven  and  me,  if  not  also  between  Heaven  and  earth  (and 
why  Heaven  should  allow  hairs  in  pens  I  can’t  think). 

I  take  great  care  of  myself,  be  quite  sure  of  that,  Susie  ; 
the  worst  of  it  is,  here  in  Assisi  everybody  else  wants  me  to 
take  care  of  them. 

Catharine  brought  me  up  as  a  great  treat  yesterday,  at 
dinner,  ham  dressed  with  as  much  garlic  as  could  be  stewed 
into  it,  and  a  plate  of  raw  figs,  telling  me  I  was  to  eat  them 
together ! 

The  sun  is  changing  the  entire  mountains  of  Assisi  into  a 
hot  bottle  with  no  flannel  round  it ;  but  I  can’t  get  a  ripe 
plum,  peach,  or  cherry.  All  the  milk  turns  sour,  and  one 
has  to  eat  one’s  meat  as  its  toughest  or  the  thunder  gets  into 
it  next  day. 


FOAM  OF  TIBER. 

Perugia,  17 tli  July. 

I  am  made  anxious  by  your  sweet  letter  of  the  Gth  saying 
you  have  been  ill  and  are  “  not  much  better.” 

The  letter  is  all  like  yours,  but  I  suppose  however  ill  you 
were  you  would  always  write  prettily,  so  thats  little  comfort. 

About  the  Narcissus,  please.  I  want  them  for  my  fishpond 
stream  rather  than  for  the  bee-house  one.  The  fishpond  stream 
is  very  doleful,  and  wants  to  dance  with  daffodils  if  they 
would  come  and  teach  it.  How  happy  we  are  in  our  natb  e 
streams  !  A  thunder-storm  swelled  the  Tiber  yesterday,  and 
it  rolled  over  its  mill  weirs  in  heaps,  literally,  of  tossed  vatei, 
the  size  of  haycocks,  but  black-brown  like  coffee  with  the 
grounds  in  it,  mixed  with  a  very  little  yellow  milk.  Iu  some 


24 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


lights  the  foam  flew  like  cast  handfuls  of  heavy  gravel.  The 
chief  flowers  here  are  only  broom  and  bindweed,  and  I  begin 
to  weary  for  my  heather  and  for  my  Susie  ;  but,  oh  dear,  the 
ways  are  long  and  the  days  few. 


Lucca,  29  th  July. 

I’m  not  going  to  be  devoured  when  I  come,  by  anybody, 
unless  you  like  to.  I  shall  come  to  your  window  with  the 
birds,  to  be  fed  myself. 

And  please  at  present  always  complain  to  me  whenever  you 
like.  It  is  the  over-boisterous  cheerfulness  of  common  peo¬ 
ple  that  hurts  me  ;  your  sadness  is  a  help  to  me. 

You  shall  have  whatever  name  you  like  for  your  book,  pro¬ 
vided  you  continue  to  like  it  after  thinking  over  it  long 
enough.  You  will  not  like  “  Gleanings,”  because  you  know 
that  one  only  gleans  refuse — dropped  ears— that  other  peo¬ 
ple  don’t  care  for.  You  go  into  the  garden  and  gather 
with  choice  the  flowers  you  like  best.  That  is  not  gleaning ! 


Lucca,  10 th  August. 

I  have  been  grieved  not  to  write  to  you  ;  but  the  number  of 
things  that  vex  me  are  so  great  just  now,  that  unless  by  false 
effort  I  could  write  you  nothing  nice.  It  is  very  dreadful  to 
live  in  Italy,  and  more  dreadful  to  see  one’s  England  and 
one’s  English  friends,  all  but  a  field  or  two,  and  a  stream  or 
two,  and  a  one  Susie  and  one  Dr.  Brown,  fast  becoming  like 
Italy  and  the  Italians. 

I  have  too  much  sympathy  with  your  sorrow  to  write  to  you 
of  it.  What  I  have  not  sympathy  with,  is  your  hope  ;  and 
how  cruel  it  is  to  say  this  !  But  I  am  driven  more  and  more 
to  think  there  is  to  be  no  more  good  for  a  time,  but  a  reign 
of  terror  of  men  and  the  elements  alike  ;  and  yet  it  is  so  like 
what  is  foretold  before  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  man,  that  per¬ 
haps  in  the  extremest  evil  of  it  I  may  some  day  read  the  sign 
that  our  redemption  draws  nigh. 

Now,  Susie,  invent  a  nice  cluster  of  titles  for  the  book  and 


II  OUT  VS  INCLUSUS. 


25 


send  them  to  me  to  choose  from,  to  Hotel  de  l’Arno,  Flor¬ 
ence.  I  must  get  that  out  before  the  day  of  judgment,  if  I 
can.  I’m  so  glad  of  your  sweet  flatteries  in  this  note  received 
to-day. 


Florence,  25 th  August. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  write  to  you,  or  anyone  lately,  whom 
I  don’t  want  to  tease,  except  Dr.  Brown,  whom  I  write  to  for 
counsel.  My  time  is  passed  in  a  fierce  steady  struggle  to  save 
all  I  can  every  day,  as  a  fireman  from  a  smouldering  ruin,  of 
history  or  aspect.  To-day,  for  instance,  I’ve  been  just  in  time 
to  ascertain  the  form  of  the  cross  of  the  Emperor,  represent¬ 
ing  the  power  of  the  State  in  the  greatest  political  fresco  of 
old  times — fourteenth  century.  By  next  year,  it  may  be  next 
month,  it  will  have  dropped  from  the  wall  with  the  vibration 
of  the  railway  outside,  and  be  touched  up  with  new  gilding 
for  the  mob. 

I  am  keeping  well,  but  am  in  a  terrible  spell  (literally^ 
“  spell,”  enchanted  maze,  that  I  can’t  get  out  of)  of  work. 

I  was  a  little  scandalized  at  the  idea  of  your  calling  the 
book  “  word  painting.”  My  dearest  Susie,  it  is  the  chief 
provocation  of  my  life  to  be  called  a  “  word  painter  ”  instead 
of  a  thinker.  I  hope  you  haven’t  filled  your  book  with  de¬ 
scriptions.  I  thought  it  was  the  thoughts  you  were  looking 
for  ? 

“  Posie  ”  would  be  pretty.  If  you  ask  Joanie  she  will  tell 
you  perhaps  too  pretty  for  me,  and  I  can’t  think  a  bit  to-night, 
for  instead  of  robins  singing  I  hear  only  blaspheming  game¬ 
sters  on  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  street. 


Florence,  September. 

Don’t  be  in  despair  about  your  book.  I  am  sure  it  will  be 
lovely.  I’ll  see  to  it  the  moment  I  get  home,  but  I’ve  got 
into  an  entirely  unexpected  piece  of  business  here,  the  inter¬ 
pretation  of  a  large  chapel  full  of  misunderstood,  or  not  at  all 
understood,  frescoes  ;  and  I’m  terribly  afraid  of  breaking 


26 


nonTUS  INCLUSUS. 


down,  so  much  drawing  has  to  be  done  at  the  same  time.  It 
lias  stranded  botany  and  everything. 

I  was  kept  awake  half  of  last  night  by  drunken  blackguards 
howling  on  the  bridge  of  the  Holy  Trinity  in  the  pure  half¬ 
moonlight.  This  is  the  kind  of  discord  I  have  to  bear,  cor¬ 
responding  to  your  uncongenial  company.  But,  alas  !  Susie, 
you  ought  at  ten  years  old  to  have  more  firmness,  and  to  resolve 
that  you  won’t  be  bored.  I  think  I  shall  try  to  enforce  it  on 
you  as  a  very  solemn  duty  not  to  lie  to  people  as  the  vulgar 
public  do.  If  they  bore  you,  say  so,  and  they’ll  go  away. 
That  is  the  right  state  of  things. 

How  am  I  to  know  that  /  don’t  bore  you,  when  I  come, 
when  you’re  so  civil  to  people  you  hate  ? 


Pass  op  Bocchetta,  1st  October. 

•  ••••• 

All  that  is  lovely  and  wonderful  in  the  Alps  may  be  seen 
without  the  slightest  danger,  in  general,  and  it  is  especially 
good  for  little  girls  of  eleven,  who  can’t  climb,  to  know  this — 
all  the  best  views  of  hills  are  at  the  bottom  of  them.  I  know 
one  or  two  places  indeed  where  there  is  a  grand  peeping  over 
precipices,  one  or  two  where  the  mountain  seclusion  and 
strength  are  worth  climbing  to  see.  But  all  the  entirely  beau¬ 
tiful  things  I  could  show  you,  Susie  ;  only  for  the  very  highest 
sublime  of  them  sometimes  asking  you  to  endure  half  an  hour 
of  chaise  d  porteur ,  but  mostly  from  a  post-chaise  or  smooth¬ 
est  of  turnpike  roads. 

But,  Susie,  do  you  know,  I’m  greatly  horrified  at  the  pen¬ 
wipers  of  peacock’s  feathers  !  I  always  use  my  left-hand  coat¬ 
tail,  indeed,  and  if  only  I  were  a  peacock  and  a  pet  of  yours, 
how  you’d  scold  me  ! 

Sun  just  coming  out  over  sea  (at  Sestri),  which  is  sighing 
in  toward  the  window,  within  your  drive,  round  before  the 
door’s  breadth  of  it,*  seen  between  two  masses  of  acacia 
copse  and  two  orange-trees  at  the  side  of  the  inn  courtyard. 


*  That  is,  within  that  distance  of  the  window. 


HORTUS  INOLUSUS . 


27 


Geneva,  Mdth  October. 

How  I  have  been  neglecting  you !  Perhaps  Joanie  may 
have  told  you  that  just  at  my  last  gasp  of  hand-work,  I  had 
to  write  quite  an  unexpected  number  of  letters.  But  poor 
Joanie  will  think  herself  neglected  now,  for  I  have  been 
stopped  among  the  Alps  by  a  state  of  their  glaciers  entirely 
unexampled,  and  shall  be  a  week  after  my  “ latest  possible” 
day,  in  getting  home.  It  is  eleven  years  since  I  was  here, 
and  very  sad  to  me  to  return,  yet  delightful  with  a  moon¬ 
light  paleness  of  the  past,  precious  of  its  kind. 

I  shall  be  at  home  with  Joan  in  ten  days  now,  God  willing. 
I  have  much  to  tell  you,  which  will  give  you  pleasure  and 
pain  ;  but  I  don’t  know  how  much  it  will  be — to  tell  you — 
for  a  little  while  yet,  so  I  don’t  begin. 


Oxford,  26  th  October. 

Home  at  last  with  your  lovely,  most  lovely,  letter  in  my 
breast  pocket,  from  Joan’s  all  the  way  here. 

I  am  so  very  grateful  to  you  for  not  writing  on  black 
paper. 

Oh,  dear  Susie,  why  should  we  ever  wear  black  for  the 
guests  of  God? 


WHARFE  IN  FLOOD. 

Bolton  Abbey,  2477a  January ,  1875. 

The  black  rain,  much  as  I  growled  at  it,  has  let  me  seo 
Wharfe  in  flood  ;  and  I  would  have  borne  many  days  in 
prison  to  see  that. 

No  one  need  go  to  the  Alps  to  see  wild  water.  Seldom, 
unless  in  the  Rhine  or  Rhone  themselves  at  their  rapids,  liavo 
I  seen  anything  much  grander.  An  Alpine  stream,  besides, 
nearly  always  has  its  bed  full  of  loose  stones,  and  becomes 
a  series  of  humps  and  dumps  of  wTater  wherever  it  is  shallow ; 
while  the  Wharfe  swrept  round  its  curves  of  shore  like  a  black 
Damascus  sabre,  coiled  into  eddies  of  steel.  At  the  Strid,  it 
had  risen  eight  feet  vertical  since  yesterday,  sheeting  the  flat 
rocks  with  foam  from  side  to  side,  while  the  treacherous  mid- 


28 


n  OUT  US  INCLUSUS. 


channel  was  filled  with  a  succession  of  boiling  domes  of 
water,  charged  through  and  through  with  churning  white, 
and  rolling  out  into  the  broader  stream,  each  like  a  vast  sea- 
wave  bursting  on  a  beach. 

There  is  something  in  the  soft  and  comparatively  unbroken 
slopes  of  these  Yorkshire  shales  which  must  give  the  water  a 
peculiar  sweeping  power,  for  I  have  seen  Tay  and  Tummel  and 
Ness,  and  many  a  big  stream  besides,  savage  enough,  but  I 
don’t  remember  anything  so  grim  as  this. 

I  came  home  to  quiet  tea  and  a  black  kitten  called  Sweep, 
who  lapped  half  my  cream  jugful  (and  yet  I  had  plenty) 
sitting  on  my  shoulder — and  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  I  was 
reading  his  great  Scottish  history  tour,  when  he  was  twenty- 
three,  and  got  his  materials  for  everything  nearly,  but  es¬ 
pecially  for  Waverley,  though  not  used  till  long  afterward. 

Do  you  recollect  Gibbie  Gellatly  ?  I  was  thinking  over  that 
question  of  yours,  “What  did  I  think?”  *  But,  my  dear 
Susie,  you  might  as  well  ask  Gibbie  Gellatly  what  he  thought. 
What  does  it  matter  what  any  of  us  think  ?  We  are  but 
simpletons,  the  best  of  us,  and  I  am  a  very  inconsistent  and 
wayward  simpleton.  I  know  how  to  roast  eggs,  in  the  ashes, 
perhaps — but  for  the  next  world  ?  Why  don’t  you  ask  your 
squirrel  what  he  thinks  too  ?  The  great  point — the  one  for 
all  of  us — is,  not  to  take  false  words  in  our  mouths,  and  to 
crack  our  nuts  innocently  through  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I  shall  post  this  to-morrow  as  I  pass  through  Skipton  or 
any  post-worthy  place  on  my  way  to  Wakefield.  Write  to 
Warwick.  Oh,  me,  what  places  England  had,  when  she  was 
herself !  Now,  rail  stations  mostly.  But  I  never  can  make 
out  how  Warwick  Castle  got  built  by  that  dull  bit  of  river. 


“  FRONDES.” 

Wakefield,  25 th  January ,  1875. 

Here’s  our  book  in  form  at  last,  and  it  seems  to  me  just  a 
nico  siz£,  and  on  the  whole  very  taking.  I’ve  put  a  touch  or 


*  Of  tlie  things  that  shall  be,  hereafter. 


IT  OUT  US  TNOLUSUS. 


29 


two  more  to  the  preface,  and  I’m  sadly  afraid  there’s  a 
naughty  note  somewhere.  I  hope  you  won’t  find  it,  and  that 
you  will  like  the  order  the  things  are  put  in. 

Such  ill  roads  as  we  came  over  to-day,  I  never  thought  to 
see  in  England. 


Castleton,  26th  January ,  1875. 

Here  I  have  your  long,  dear  letter.  I  am  very  thankful  I 
can  be  so  much  to  you.  Of  all  the  people  I  have  yet  known, 
you  are  the  only  one  I  can  find  complete  sympathy  in  ;  you 
are  so  nice  and  young,  without  the  hardness  of  youth,  and 
may  be  the  best  of  sisters  to  me.  I  am  not  so  sure  about 
letting  you  be  an  elder  one  ;  I  am  not  going  to  be  lectured 
when  I’m  naughty. 

I’ve  been  so  busy  at  wasps  all  day  coming  along,  having 
got  a  nice  book  about  them.  It  tells  me,  too,  of  a  delightful 
German  doctor  who  kept  tame  hornets — a  whole  nest  in  his 
study !  They  knew  him  perfectly,  and  would  let  him  do 
anything  with  them,  even  pull  bits  off  their  nest  to  look  in 
at  it. 

Wasps,  too,  my  author  says,  are  really  much  more  amiable 
than  bees,  and  never  get  angry  without  cause.  All  the  same, 
they  have  a  tiresome  way  of  inspecting  one,  too  closely,  some¬ 
times,  I  think. 

I’m  immensely  struck  with  the  Peak  Cavern,  but  it  was  in 
twilight. 

I’m  going  to  stay  here  all  to-morrow,  the  place  is  so  en¬ 
tirely  unspoiled.  I’ve  not  seen  such  a  primitive  village,  rock, 
or  stream,  this  twenty  years  ;  Langdale  is  as  sophisticated  as 
Pall  Mall  in  comparison. 

Alas,  I’ve  other  letters  to  write  ! 


WASP  STINGS. 

Bolton  Biudge,  Saturday. 

I  never  was  more  thankful  than  for  your  sweet  note,  being 
stopped  here  by  bad  weather  again  ;  the  worst  of  posting  is 


30 


ITOTITUS  TNCITTSTTS. 


that  one  has  to  think  of  one’s  servant  outside,  and  so  lose  a 
day. 

It  was  bitter  wind  and  snow  this  morning,  too  bad  to  send 
any  human  creature  to  sit  idle  in.  Black  enough  still,  and  I, 
more  than  usual,  because  it  is  just  that  point  of  distinction 
from  brutes  which  I  truly  say  is  our  only  one,*  of  which  I 
have  now  so  little  hold. 

The  bee  Fors  f  will  be  got  quickly  into  proof,  but  I  must 
add  a  good  deal  to  it.  I  can’t  get  into  good  humor  for  natu¬ 
ral  history  in  this  weather. 

I’ve  got  a  good  book  on  wasps  which  says  they  are  our 
chief  protectors  against  flies.  In  Cumberland  the  wet,  cold 
spring  is  so  bad  for  the  wasps  that  I  partly  think  this  may  bo 
so,  and  the  terrible  plague  of  flies  in  August  might  perhaps 
be  checked  by  our  teaching  our  little  Agneses  to  keep  wasps* 
nests  instead  of  bees. 

Yes,  that  is  a  pretty  bit  of  mine  about  Hamlet,  and  I  think 
I  must  surely  bo  a  little  pathetic  sometimes,  in  a  doggish 
way. 

“You’re  so  dreadfully  faithful!  ”  said  Arthur  Severn  to  me, 
fretting  over  the  way  I  was  being  ill-treated  the  other  day 
by  R. 

Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  were  at  Brantwood  again,  now,  and 
could  send  you  my  wasp  book !  It  is  pathetic,  and  yet  so 
dreadful — the  wasp  bringing  in  the  caterpillar  for  its  young 
wasp,  stinging  each  enough  to  paralyze,  but  not  to  kill,  and 
so  laying  them  up  in  the  cupboard. 

I  wonder  how  the  clergymen’s  wives  will  feel  after  the  next 
Fors  or  two  !  I’ve  done  a  bit  to-day  which  I  think  will  go  in 
with  a  shiver.  Do  you  recollect  the  curious  thrill  there  is — 
the  cold  tingle  of  the  pang  of  a  nice  deep  wasp  sting  ? 

Well,  I’m  not  in  a  fit  temper  to  write  to  Susie  to-day, 
clearly. 


*  I’ve  forgotten  what  it  was,  and  don’t  feel  now  as  if  I  had  ‘  got  hold 
of  any  one. 

f  See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  LI. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


31 


BOLTON  STRID. 

I  stopped  here  to  see  the  Strid  again — not  seen  these  many 
years.  It  is  carious  that  life  is  embittered  to  me,  now,  by  its 
former  pleasantness  ;  while  you  have  of  these  same  places 
painful  recollections,  but  you  could  enjoy  them  now  with 
your  whole  heart. 

Instead  of  the  drive  with  the  poor  over-labored  one  horse 
through  the  long  wet  day,  here,  when  I  was  a  youth,  my  father 
and  mother  brought  me,  and  let  me  sketch  in  the  Abbey  and 
ramble  in  the  woods  as  I  chose,  only  demanding  promise  that 
I  should  not  go  near  the  Strid.  Pleasant  drives,  with,  on  the 
whole,  well  paid  and  pleased  drivers,  never  with  over-burdened 
cattle  ;  cheerful  dinner  or  tea  waiting  for  me  always,  on  my 
return  from  solitary  rambles.  Everything  right  and  good  for 
me,  except  only  that  they  never  put  me  through  any  trials  to 
harden  me,  or  give  me  decision  of  character,  or  make  me  feel 
how  much  they  did  for  me. 

But  that  error  was  a  fearful  one,  and  cost  them  and  me, 
Heaven  only  knows  how  much.  And  now,  I  walk  to  Strid, 
and  Abbey,  and  everywhere,  with  the  ghosts  of  the  past  days 
haunting  me,  and  other  darker  spirits  of  sorrow  and  remorse 
and  wonder.  Black  spirits  among  the  gray,  all  like  a  mist 
between  me  and  the  green  woods.  And  I  feel  like  a  cater¬ 
pillar — stung  just  enough.  Foul  weather  and  mist  enough, 
of  quite  a  real  kind  besides.  An  hour’s  sunshine  to-day, 
broken  up  speedily,  and  now  veiled  utterly. 


Herne  Hill,  London, 

11  th  February ,  1875. 

I  have  your  sweet  letter  with  news  of  Dr.  John  and  his 
brother.  I  have  been  working  on  the  book  to-day  very  hard, 
after  much  interruption  ;  it  is  two- thirds  done  now.  So  glad 
people  are  on  tiptoe. 

Paddocks  are  frogs,  not  toads  in  that  grace.*  And  why 


*  Herrick’s.  See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  XLIII. 


32 


II  OUT  US  INOLUSUS. 


should  not  people  smile  ?  Do  you  think  that  God  does  not 
like  smiling  graces  ?  He  only  dislikes  frowns.  But  you 
know  when  once  habitual,  the  child  would  be  told  on  a  cold 
day  to  say  “Cold  as  paddocks,”  and  everybody  would  know 
what  was  coming.  Finally  the  deep  under-meaning,  that  as 
the  cold  hand  is  lifted,  so  also  the  cold  heart,  and  yet  accepted, 
makes  it  one  of  the  prettiest  little  hymns  I  know. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  very  apposite  to  my  work  these  two 
feathers  are.  I  am  just  going  to  dwell  on  the  exquisite  result 
of  the  division  into  successive  leaves,  by  which  nature  obtains 
the  glittering  look  to  set  off  her  color  ;  and  you  just  send  me 
two  feathers  which  havo  it  more  in  perfection  than  any  I 
ever  saw,  and  I  think  are  more  vivid  in  color. 

How  these  boys  must  tease  you  !  but  you  will  be  rewarded 
in  the  world  that  good  Susies  go  to. 

You  must  show  me  the  drawing  of  the  grebe.  The  moss 
is  getting  on. 


Venice,  12 th  September,  1876, 

I  must  just  say  how  thankful  it  makes  me  to  hear  of  this 
true  gentleness  of  English  gentlewomen  in  the  midst  of  the 
vice  and  cruelty  in  which  I  am  forced  to  live  here,  where  op¬ 
pression  on  one  side  and  license  on  the  other  rage  as  two  war- 
wolves  in  continual  havoc. 

It  is  very  characteristic  of  fallen  Venice,  as  of  modern  Europe, 
that  hero  in  the  principal  rooms  of  one  of  the  chief  palaces, 
in  the  very  headmost  sweep  of  the  Grand  Canal,  there  is  not 
a  room  for  a  servant  fit  to  keep  a  cat  or  a  dog  in  (as  Susie 
would  keep  cat  or  dog,  at  least). 


Venice,  18M  September. 

I  never  knew  such  a  fight  as  the  good  and  wicked  fairies 
are  having  over  my  poor  body  and  spirit  just  now.  The  good 
fairies  havo  got  down  the  St.  Ursula  for  me  and  given  her  to 
me  all  to  myself,  and  sent  me  fine  weather  and  nice  gondoliers, 
and  a  good  cook,  and  a  pleasant  waiter  ;  and  the  bad  fairies 


II  OUT  US  IN  UL  US  US. 


33 


keep  putting  everything  upside  down,  and  putting  black  in 
my  box  when  I  want  white,  and  making  me  forget  all  I  want, 
and  find  all  I  don’t,  and  making  the  hinges  come  off  my 
boards,  and  the  leaves  out  of  my  books,  and  driving  me  as 
wild  as  wild  can  be  ;  but  I’m  getting  something  done  in  spite 
of  them,  only  I  never  can  get  my  letters  written. 


Venice,  September  29 th. 

I  have  woful  letters  telling  me  you  also  were  woful  in  say¬ 
ing  good-by.  My  darling  Susie,  what  is  the  use  of  your 
being  so  good  and  dear  if  you  can’t  enjoy  thinking  of  heaven, 
and  what  fine  goings  on  we  shall  all  have  there  ? 

All  the  same,  even  when  I’m  at  my  very  piousest,  it  puts 
me  out  if  my  drawings  go  wrong.  I’m  going  to  draw  St. 
Ursula’s  blue  slippers  to-day,  and  if  I  can’t  do  them  nicely 
shall  be  in  great  despair.  I’ve  just  found  a  little  cunning 
inscription  on  her  bedpost,  ‘INFANNTIA.’  The  double  N 
puzzled  me  at  first,  but  Carpaccio  spells  anyhow.  My  head 
is  not  good  enough  for  a  bedpost.  .  .  .  Oh  me,  the  sweet 

Grange  ! — Thwaite,  I  mean  (bedpost  again) ;  to  think  of  it  in 
this  mass  of  weeds  and  ruin  ! 


ST.  URSULA. 

Venice,  13 th  November. 

I  have  to-day  your  dear  little  note,  and  have  desired  Joan 
to  send  you  one  just  written  to  her,  in  which  I  have  given 
some  account  of  myself,  that  may  partly  interest,  partly  win 
your  pardon  for  apparent  neglect.  Coming  here,  after  prac¬ 
tically  an  interval  of  twenty-four  years — for  I  have  not  seri¬ 
ously  looked  at  anything  during  the  two  hurried  visits  with 
Joan — my  old  unfinished  work,  and  the  possibilities  of  its 
better  completion,  rise  grievously  and  beguilingly  before  me, 
and  I  have  been  stretching  my  hands  to  the  shadow  of  old 
designs  and  striving  to  fulfil  shortcomings,  always  painful  tc 
me,  but  now,  for  the  moment,  intolerable. 


34 


HOB T US  INCLUSUS . 


I  am  also  approaching  the  close  of  the  sixth  year  of  Fors, 
and  have  plans  for  the  Sabbatical  year  of  it,  which  make  my 
thoughts  active  and  troubled.  I  am  drawing  much,  and  have 
got  a  study  of  St.  Ursula  which  will  give  you  pleasure  ;  but 
the  pain  of  being  separate  from  my  friends  and  of  knowing 
they  miss  me  !  I  wonder  if  you  will  think  you  are  making 
me  too  vain,  Susie.  Such  vanity  is  a  very  painful  one,  for  I 
know  that  you  look  out  of  the  window  on  Sundays  now,  wist¬ 
fully,  for  Joan’s  handkerchief.  This  pain  seems  always  at  my 
heart,  with  the  other  which  is  its  own. 

I  am  thankful,  always,  you  like  St.  Ursula.  One  quite  fixed 
plan  for  the  last  year  of  Fors,  is  that  there  shall  be  absolutely 
no  abuse  or  controversy  in  it,  but  things  which  will  either 
give  pleasure  or  help  ;  and  some  clear  statements  of  principle, 
in  language  as  temperate  as  hitherto  violent ;  to  show,  for  one 
thing,  that  the  violence  was  not  for  want  of  self-command. 

I’m  going  to  have  a  good  fling  at  the  Bishops  in  next  Fors 
to  finish  with,  and  then  for  January  ! — only  I  mustn’t  be  too 
good,  Susie,  or  something  would  happen  to  me.  So  I  shall 
say  naughty  things  still,  but  in  the  mildest  way. 

I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  that  comparison  about  my 
mind  being  as  crisp  as  a  lettuce.  I  am  so  thankful  you  can 
feel  that  still.  I  was  beginning  to  doubt,  myself. 


ST.  M AUK’S  DOVES. 

Venice,  2d  December. 

I  have  been  very  dismal  lately.  I  hope  the  next  captain  of 
St.  Georgo’s  Company  will  be  a  merrier  one  and  happier,  in 
being  of  use.  I  am  inherently  selfish,  and  don’t  enjoy  being 
of  use.  I  enjoy  painting  and  picking  up  stones  and  flirting 
with  Susies  and  Kathleens  ;  it’s  very  odd  that  I  never  much 
care  to  flirt  with  any  but  little  girls  !  And  here  I’ve  no 
Susies  nor  Kathleens  nor  Diddies,  and  I’m  only  doing  lots  of 
good,  and  I’m  very  miserable.  I’ve  been  going  late  to  bed 
too.  I  picked  myself  up  last  night  and  went  to  bed  at  nine, 
and  feel  cheerful  enough  to  ask  Susie  how  she  does,  and  send 


Hour  US  IN CL  US  US. 


her  love  from  St.  Mark’s  doves.  They’re  really  tiresome  now, 
among  one’s  feet  in  St.  Mark’s  Place,  and  I  don’t  know  what 
it  will  come  to.  In  old  times,  when  there  were  not  so  many 
idlers  about,  the  doves  were  used  to  brisk  walkers,  and  moved 
away  a  foot  or  two  in  front  of  one  ;  but  now  everybody 
lounges,  or  stands  talking  about  the  Government,  and  the 
doves  won’t  stir  till  one  just  touches  them  ;  and  I  who  walk 
fast  *  am  always  expecting  to  tread  on  them,  and  it’s  a  nui¬ 
sance. 

If  I  only  had  time  I  would  fain  make  friends  with  the  sea¬ 
gulls,  who  would  be  quite  like  angels  if  they  would  only  stop 
on  one’s  balcony.  If  there  were  the  least  bit  of  truth  in  Dar¬ 
winism,  Venice  would  have  had  her  own  born  seagulls  by  this 
time  building  their  nests  at  her  thresholds. 

Now  I  must  get  to  work.  Love  to  Mary  and  Miss  Rigby e. 
Now  mind  you  give  my  message  carefully,  Susie,  because 
you’re  a  careless  little  thing. 


Venice,  11  th  December. 

My  mouth’s  watering  so  for  that  Thwaite  currant  jelly,  you 
can’t  think.  I  haven’t  had  the  least  taste  of  anything  of  the 
sort  this  three  months.  These  wretches  of  Venetians  live  on 
cigars  and  garlic,  and  have  no  taste  in  their  mouths  for  any¬ 
thing  that  God  makes  nice. 

The  little  drawing  (returned)  is  nice  in  color  and  feeling, 
but,  which  surprises  me,  not  at  all  intelligent  in  line.  It  is 
not  weakness  of  hand  but  fault  of  perspective  instinct,  which 
spoils  so  many  otherwise  good  botanical  drawings. 

Bright  morning.  Sickle  moon  just  hiding  in  a  red  cloud, 
and  the  morning  stars  just  vanished  in  light.  But  we’ve  had 
nearly  three  weeks  of  dark  weather,  so  we  mustn’t  think  it 
poor  Coniston’s  fault — though  Coniston  has  faults.  Poor  lit¬ 
tle  Susie,  it  shan’t  have  any  more  nasty  messages  to  carry. 


♦  See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  LXXXII. 


36 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


ST.  mark’s  rest. 

23(2  January,  1877. 

I’ve  caught  cold  and  can  think  of  nothing  to  do  me  good 
but  making  you  miserable  by  telling  you  so. 

It’s  not  a  very  bad  one.  And  it’s  a  wonder  I’ve  got  so  far 
through  the  winter  without  any. 

Things  have  gone  very  well  for  me,  hitherto,  but  I  have 
been  depressed  by  hearing  of  my  poor  Kate’s  *  illness  ;  and 
can’t  think  of  Brantwood  with  any  comfort,  so  I  come  across 
the  lake  to  the  Thwaite. 

A  great  many  lovely  things  happened  to  me  this  Christmas, 
but  if  I  were  to  tell  Susie  of  them  I  am  sure  she  would  be 
frightened  out  of  her  bright  little  wits,  and  think  I  was  going 
to  be  a  Roman  Catholic.  I’m  writing  such  a  Catholic  history 
of  Venice,  and  chiselling  all  the  Protestantism  off  the  old 
“  Stones  ”  as  they  do  here  the  grass  off  steps. 

All  the  pigeons  of  St.  Mark’s  Place  send  you  their  love. 
St.  Ursula  adds  hers  to  the  eleven  thousand  bird’s  love.  And 
the  darlingest  old  Pope  who  went  a  pilgrimage  with  her,  hopes 
you  won’t  be  too  much  shocked  if  he  sends  his  too  !  (If  you’re 
not  shocked,  /  am  !) 

My  new  Catholic  history  of  Venice  is  to  be  called  “St. 
Mark’s  Rest.” 


27th  January. 

Joanie  tells  me  you  are  writing  her  such  sad  little  letters. 
How  can  it  be  that  anyone  so  good  and  true  as  my  Susie  should 
be  sad  ?  I  am  sad,  bitterly  enough  and  often,  but  only  with 
sense  of  fault  and  folly  and  lost  opportunity  such  as  you  have 
never  fallen  into  or  lost.  It  is  very  cruel  of  Fate,  I  think,  to 
make  us  sad,  who  would  fain  see  everybody  cheerful,  and 
(cruel  of  Fate  too)  to  make  so  many  cheerful  who  make  others 
wretched.  The  little  history  of  Venice  is  well  on,  and  will 
be  clear  and  interesting,  I  think — more  than  most  histories  of 
anything.  And  the  stories  of  saints  and  nice  people  will  be 


*  Then,  my  head  servant ;  now  Kate  Raven,  of  Coniston. 


non T US  INCLUSUS. 


37 


plenty.  Oli  me,  I  wonder,  Susie  dear,  whether  you  and  I  are 
saints,  or  what  we  are.  You  know  you’re  really  a  little  wicked 
sometimes  as  w*ell  as  me,  aren’t  you  ? 

Such  moonlight  as  there  is  to-night,  but  nothing  to  what  it 
is  at  Coniston !  It  makes  the  lagoon  water  look  brown  in¬ 
stead  of  green,  which  I  never  noticed  before. 


SAINTS  AND  FLOWERS. 

Venice,  17 th  February. 

It  is  very  grievous  to  me  to  hear  of  your  being  in  that  woful 
weather  while  I  have  two  days’  sunshine  out  of  three,  and 
starlight  or  moonlight  always  ;  to-day  the  whole  chain  of  the 
Alps  from  Vicenza  to  Trieste  shining  cloudless  all  day  long, 
and  the  seagulls  floating  high  in  the  blue,  like  little  dazzling 
boys’  kites. 

Yes,  St.  Francis  would  have  been  greatly  pleased  with  you 
watching  pussy  drink  your  milk  ;  so  would  St.  Theodore,  as 
you  will  see  by  next  Fors,  which  I  have  ordered  to  be  sent 
you  in  first  proof,  for  I  am  eager  that  you  should  have  it. 
What  wonderful  flowers  these  pinks  of  St.  Ursula’s  are,  for 
life !  They  seem  to  bloom  like  everlastings. 

I  get  my  first  rosebud  and  violets  of  this  year  from  St. 
Helena’s  Island  to-day.  Howl  begin  to  pity  people  who  have 
no  saints  to  be  good  to  them  !  Who  is  yours  at  Coniston  ? 
There  must  have  been  some  in  the  country  once  upon  a  time. 

With  their  help  I  am  really  getting  well  on  with  my  history 
and  drawing,  and  hope  for  a  sweet  time  at  home  in  the  heath¬ 
ery  days,  and  many  a  nice  afternoon  tea  at  the  Thwaite. 


Venice,  8 th  March. 

That  is  entirely  new  and  wonderful  to  me  about  the  sing¬ 
ing  mouse.*  Douglas  (was  it  the  Douglas?)  saying  “he  had 

*  A  pleasant  story  that  a  friend  sent  me  from  France.  I  he  mouse 
often  came  into  their  sitting-room  and  actually  sang  to  them,  the  notes 
being  a  little  like  a  canary's. — S.  B. 


38 


U  OUT  US  INGLUSUS. 


rather  hear  the  lark  sing  than  the  mouse  squeak  ”  needs  re¬ 
vision.  It  is  a  marvellous  fact  in  natural  history. 

The  wind  is  singing  a  wild  tune  to-night — cannot  be  colder 
on  our  own  heaths — and  the  waves  dash  like  our  Waterhead. 
Oh  me,  when  I’m  walking  round  it  again,  how  like  a  sad  dream 
all  this  Venice  will  be  ! 


Oxford,  2d  December. 

I  write  first  to  you  this  morning  to  tell  you  that  I  gave  yes¬ 
terday  the  twelfth  and  last  of  my  course  of  lectures  this  term, 
to  a  room  crowded  by  six  hundred  people,  two-thirds  members 
of  the  University,  and  with  its  door  wedged  open  by  those 
who  could  not  get  in  ;  this  interest  of  theirs  being  granted  to 
me,  I  doubt  not,  because  for  the  first  time  in  Oxford,  I  have 
been  able  to  speak  to  them  boldly  of  immortal  life.  I  intend¬ 
ed,  when  I  began  the  course,  only  to  have  read  “  Modern  Paint¬ 
ers  ”  to  them ;  but  when  I  began,  some  of  your  favorite  bits 
interested  the  men  so  much,  and  brought  so  much  larger  a 
proportion  of  undergraduates  than  usual,  that  I  took  pains  to 
reinforce  and  press  them  home  ;  and  people  say  I  have  never 
given  so  useful  a  course  yet.  But  it  has  taken  all  my  time  and 
strength,  and  I  have  not  been  able  even  to  tell  Susie  a  word 
about  it  until  now.  In  one  of  my  lectures  I  made  my  text  your 
pretty  peacock  and  the  design  *  of  him.  But  did  not  venture 
to  say,  what  really  must  be  true,  that  his  voice  is  an  example  of 
“  the  Devil  sowed  tares,”  and  of  the  angels  letting  both  grow 
together.  Joanie  was  “  wae  ”  to  leave  Brantwood  and  you 
(and  between  you  and  me  her  letters  have  been  so  dull  ever 
since,  that  I  think  she  has  left  her  wits  as  well  as  her  heart  with 
you).  I  am  going  to  see  her  on  Monday  week,  the  10th,  and 
shall  start  from  home  about  the  20tli,  undertaking  (D.  V.), 
at  all  events,  to  come  on  Christmas  morning  to  your  ever 
kindly  opening  door. 

Love  to  Mary,  and  cousin  Mary  ;  how  happy  it  is  for  me 
you  are  all  so  nice  ! 


*  Decorative  art  of  his  plumage. 


UORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


39 


My  grateful  compliments  to  tlie  peacock.  And  little  (but 
warm)  loves  to  all  your  little  birds.  And  best  of  little  loves 
to  the  squirrels,  only  you  must  send  them  in  dream-words,  I 
suppose,  up  to  their  nests. 


Herne  Hill,  Sunday,  16 th  December. 

It  is  a  long  while  since  I’ve  felt  so  good  for  nothing  as  I  do 
this  morning.  My  very  wristbands  curl  up  in  a  dog’s-eared 
and  disconsolate  manner ;  my  little  room  is  all  a  heap  of 
disorder.  I’ve  got  a  hoarseness  and  wheezing  and  sneezing 
and  coughing  and  choking.  I  can’t  speak  and  I  can’t  think, 
I’m  miserable  in  bed  and  useless  out  of  it ;  and  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  could  never  venture  to  open  a  window  or  go  out  of 
a  door  any  more.  I  have  the  dimmest  sort  of  diabolical 
pleasure  in  thinking  how  miserable  I  shall  make  Susie  by  tell¬ 
ing  her  all  this  ;  but  in  other  respects  I  seem  entirely  devoid 
of  all  moral  sentiments.  I  have  arrived  at  this  state  of  things, 
first  by  catching  cold,  and  since  by  trying  to  “amuse  myself  ” 
for  three  days.  I  tried  to  read  “  Pickwick,”  but  found  that 
vulgar,  and,  besides,  I  know  it  all  by  heart.  I  sent  from  town 
for  some  chivalric  romances,  but  found  them  immeasurably 
stupid.  I  made  Baxter  read  me  the  Daily  Telegraph ,  and 
found  that  the  Home  Secretary  had  been  making  an  absurd 
speech  about  art,  without  any  consciousness  that  such  a  person 
as  I  had  ever  existed.  I  read  a  lot  of  games  of  chess  out 
of  Mr.  Staunton’s  handbook,  and  couldn’t  understand  any  of 
them.  I  analyzed  the  Dock  Company’s  bill  of  charges  on  a  box 
from  Venice,  and  sent  them  an  examination  paper  on  it.  I 
think  that  did  amuse  me  a  little,  but  the  account  doesn’t.  £1  8.s*. 

for  bringing  a  box  two  feet  square  from  the  Tower  Wharf 
to  here  !  But  the  worst  of  all  is,  that  the  doctor  keeps  me 
shut  up  here,  and  I  can’t  get  my  business  done  ;  and  now 
there  isn’t  the  least  chance  of  my  getting  down  to  Brantwood 
for  Christmas,  nor,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  for  a  fortnight  after 
it.  There’s  perhaps  a  little  of  the  diabolical  enjoyment  again 
in  that  estimate ;  but  really  the  days  do  go,  more  like  dew 


40 


II  OUT  US  INGLUSUS . 


shaken  off  branches  than  real  sunrisings  and  settings.  But 
I’ll  send  you  word  every  day  now  for  a  little  while  how  things 
are  going  on. 


Corpus  Christi  College, 
Oxford,  26^  December. 

I  don’t  know  really  whether  I  ought  to  be  at  Brantwood 
or  here  on  Christmas.  Yesterday  I  had  two  lovely  services 
in  my  own  cathedral.  You  know  the  cathedral  of  Oxford  is 
the  chapel  of  Christ  Church  College,  and  I  have  my  own  high 
seat  in  the  chancel,  as  an  honorary  student,  besides  being 
bred  there,  and  so  one  is  ever  so  proud  and  ever  so  pious  all 
at  once,  which  is  ever  so  nice,  you  know  ;  and  my  own  dean, 
that’s  the  Dean  of  Christ’s  Church,  who  is  as  big  as  any 
bishop,  read  the  services,  and  the  psalms  and  anthems  were 
lovely  ;  and  then  I  dined  with  Henry  Acland  and  his  family, 
where  I  am  an  adopted  son — all  the  more  wanted  yesterday 
because  the  favorite  son  Herbert  died  this  year  in  Cey¬ 
lon — the  first  death  out  of  seven  sons.  So  they  were  glad  to 
have  me.  Then  I’ve  all  my  Turners  here,  and  shall  really 
enjoy  myself  a  little  to-day,  I  think  ;  but  I  do  wish  I  could 
be  at  Brantwood  too. 

Oh  dear,  I’ve  scribbled  this  dreadfully.  Can  you  really 
read  my  scribble,  Susie  ?  Love,  you  may  always  read,  how¬ 
ever  scribbled. 


Oxford,  2Wi  December. 

Yes,  I  really  think  that  must  be  the  way  of  it.  I  am  wholly 
cattish  in  that  love  of  teasing.  How  delighted  I  used  to  be 
if  ltosie  would  ever  condescend  to  be  the  least  bit  jealous  ! 

By  the  way,  what  a  shame  it  is  that  we  keep  that  word 
in  the  second  commandment,  as  if  it  meant  that  God  wras 
jealous  of  images.  It  means  burning,  zealous  or  full  of  life, 
visiting,  etc.,  i.e.,  necessarily  when  leaving  the  father,  leaving 
the  child  ;  necessarily,  when  giving  the  father  life,  giving  life 
to  the  child,  and  to  thousands  of  the  race  of  them  that  love 
me. 


nORTUS  INGLUSUS, 


41 


It  is  very  comic  the  way  people  have  of  being  so  particular 
about  the  second  and  fourth  commandments,  and  breaking 
all  the  rest  with  the  greatest  comfort.  For  me,  I  try  to  keep 
all  the  rest  rather  carefully,  and  let  the  second  and  fourth 
take  care  of  themselves. 

Cold  quite  gone  ;  now  it’s  your  turn,  Susie.  I’ve  got  a 
love  letter  in  Chinese,  and  can’t  read  it ! 


Windsor  Castle,  2 d  January ,  1878. 

I’m  horribly  sulky  this  morning,  for  I  expected  to  have  a 
room  with  a  view,  if  the  room  was  ever  so  little,  and  I’ve  got 
a  great  big  one  looking  into  the  Castle  yard,  and  I  feel  ex¬ 
actly  as  if  I  was  in  a  big  modern  county  gaol  with  beautiful 
turrets  of  modern  Gothic. 

I  came  to  see  Prince  Leopold,  who  has  been  a  prisoner  to 
his  sofa  lately,  but  I  trust  he  is  better  ;  he  is  very  bright  and 
gentle,  under  severe  and  almost  continual  pain.  My  dear 
little  Susie,  about  that  rheumatism  of  yours  ?  If  it  wasn’t 
for  that,  how  happy  we  both  ought  to  be,  living  in  Th waites 
and  woods,  instead  of  nasty  castles  ?  Well,  about  that  Shake¬ 
speare  guide  ?  I  cannot,  cannot,  at  all  fancy  what  it  is.  In 
and  out  among  the  stars  ;  it  sounds  like  a  plan  for  stringing 
the  stars.  I  am  so  very  glad  you  told  me  of  it. 

“  Unwritten  books  in  my  brain  ?  ”  Yes,  but  also  in  how 
many  other  brains  of  quiet  people,  books  unthought  of,  “  In 
the  Book  and  Volume  ”  wdiich  will  be  read  some  day  in 
Heaven,  aloud,  “When  saw  we  thee?”  Yes,  and  “When 
read  we  ourselves  ?  ” 

My  dear  Susie,  if  I  wrere  to  think  really  lost ,  what  you  for 
instance  have  new  found  in  your  own  powers  of  receiving  and 
giving  pleasure,  the  beautiful  faculties  you  have,  scarcely  ven¬ 
turing  even  to  show  the  consciousness  of  them,  when  it 
awakes  in  you,  what  a  woful  conception  I  should  have  of 
God’s  not  caring  for  us.  He  will  gather  all  the  wheat  into 
His  garner. 


42 


HOE TUS  INCLUSUS. 


Ingleton,  VWi  January. 

It’s  a  charming  post  here,  and  brings  me  my  letters  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning ;  and  I  took  care  to  tell  nobody 
where  I  was  going,  except  people  I  wanted  to  hear  from. 
What  a  little  busy  bee  of  a  Susie  you’ve  been  to  get  all  those 
extracts  ready  by  this  time.  I’ve  got  nothing  done  all  the 
while  I’ve  been  away,  but  a  few  mathematical  figures,  and  the 
less  I  do  the  less  I  find  I  can  do  it ;  and  yesterday,  for  the 
first  time  these  twenty  years  at  least,  I  hadn’t  so  much  as 
a  “  plan  ”  in  my  head  all  day.  But  I  had  a  lot  to  look  at  in 
the  moorland  flowers  and  quiet  little  ancient  Yorkshire  farm¬ 
houses,  not  to  speak  of  Ingleborough,  who  was,  I  think,  a  lit¬ 
tle  depressed  because  he  knew  you  were  only  going  to  send 
your  remembrances,  and  not  your  love  to  him.  The  clouds 
gathered  on  his  brow  occasionally  in  a  fretful  manner,  but 
toward  evening  he  resumed  his  peace  of  mind  and  sends 
you  his  “  remembrances  ”  and  his  “blessing.”  I  believe  he 
saves  both  you  and  me  from  a  great  deal  of  east  wind. 

Well,  I’ve  got  a  plan  in  my  head  this  morning  for  the  new 
extracts.  Shall  we  call  them  “Lapides  (or  “Marmora”) 
Portici ;  ”  and  put  a  little  preface  to  them  about  the  pave¬ 
ment  of  St.  Mark’s  porch  and  its  symbolism  of  what  the  edu¬ 
cation  of  a  good  man’s  early  days  must  be  to  him  ?  I  think 
I  can  write  something  a  little  true  and  trustworthy  about  it. 
Love  to  Mary  and  singing  little  Joan.  You  are  very  right 
about  it’s  not  being  good  for  me  to  be  alone,  but  I  had  some 
nice  little  times  in  London  with  Mary  Gladstone,  or  I  shouldn’t 
have  known  what  to  do.  And  now  I’m  coming  home  as  fast 
as  I  can. 


2 6th  November. 

I  have  entirely  resigned  all  hope  of  ever  thanking  you 
rightly  for  bread,  sweet  odors,  roses  and  pearls,  and  must  just 
allow  myself  to  be  fed,  scented,  rose-garlanded  and  bepearled 
as  if  I  were  a  poor  little  pet  dog  or  pet  pig.  But  my  cold  is 
better,  and  I  am  getting  on  with  this  botany  ;  but  it  is  really 
too  important  a  work  to  be  pushed  for  a  week  or  a  fortnight. 
And  Mary  and  you  will  bo  pleased  at  last,  I  am  sure. 


II  OUT  US  WCLUSIIS . 


43 


I  have  only  to-day  got  my  four  families,  Clarissa,  Lychnis, 
Scintilla,  and  Mica,  perfectly  and  simply  defined.  See  how 
nicely  they  come. 

A.  Clarissa  changed  from  Dianthus,  which  is  bad  Greek  (and  all 

my  pretty  flowers  have  names  of  girls).  Petal  jagged  at  the 
outside. 

B.  Lychnis.  Petal  divided  in  two  at  the  outside,  and  the  fringe  re¬ 

tired  to  the  top  of  the  limb. 

C.  Scintilla  (changed  from  Stellaria,  because  I  want  Stella  for 

the  house  leeks).  Petal  formed  by  the  two  lobes  of  Lychnis 
without  the  retired  fringe. 

D.  Mica.  Single  lobed  petal. 

When  once  these  four  families  are  well  understood  in  typi¬ 
cal  examples,  how  easy  it  will  be  to  attach  either  subordinate 
groups  or  specialties  of  habitat,  as  in  America,  to  some  kinds 
of  them  !  The  entire  order,  for  their  purity  and  wildness,  aro 
to  be  named,  from  Artemis,  “  Artemides,”  instead  of  Caryo- 
phyllaceae ;  and  next  them  come  the  Vestals  (mints,  lavenders, 
etc.)  ;  and  then  the  Cytheride  Viola,  Veronica,  Giulietta,  the 
last  changed  from  Polygala. 

That  third  herb  Robert  one  is  just  the  drawing  that  no¬ 
body  but  me  (never  mind  grammar)  could  have  made.  No¬ 
body  !  because  it  means  ever  so  much  careful  watching  of  the 
ways  of  the  leaf,  and  a  lot  of  work  in  cramp  perspective  be¬ 
sides.  It  is  not  quite  right  yet,  but  it  is  nice. 


It  is  so  nice  to  be  able  to  find  anything  that  is  in  the  least 
new  to  you ,  and  interesting ;  my  rocks  are  quite  proud  of 
rooting  that  little  saxifrage. 

I’m  scarcely  able  to  look  at  one  flower  because  of  the  two 
on  each  side,  in  my  garden  just  now.  I  want  to  have  bees’ 
eyes,  there  are  so  many  lovely  things. 

I  must  tell  you,  interrupting  my  botanical  work  this  morn¬ 
ing,  something  that  has  just  chanced  to  me. 

I  am  arranging  the  caryophylls  which  I  mass  broadly  into 
“  Clarissa,  ”  the  true  jagged-leaved  and  clove-scented  ones  ; 
“Lychnis,  '*  those  whose  leaves  are  essentially  in  two  lobes  ; 


44 


II OUT  118  INCLUSUS. 


“  Arenaria,”  which  I  leave  untouclied  ;  and  “Mica,”  a  new 
name  of  my  own  for  the  pearlworts,  of  which  the  French  name 
is  to  be  Miette,  and  the  representative  type  (now  Sagina  pro¬ 
cumbent)  is  to  be  in — 

Latin — Mica  arnica. 

French — Miette  l’amie. 

English — Pet  pearlwort. 

Then  the  next  to  this  is  to  be — 

Latin — Mica  millegrana. 

French — Miette  aux  mille  perles. 

English — Thousand  pearls. 

Now  this  on  the  whole  I  consider  the  prettiest  of  the  group, 
and  so  look  for  a  plate  of  it  which  I  can  copy.  Hunting  all 
through  my  botanical  books,  I  find  the  best  of  all  is  Baxter’s 
Oxford  one,  and  determine  at  once  to  engrave  that.  When 
turning  the  page  of  his  text  I  find :  “  The  specimen  of  this 
curious  and  interesting  little  plant  from  which  the  accompa¬ 
nying  drawing  was  made,  was  communicated  to  me  by  Miss 
Susan  Beever.  To  the  kindness  of  this  young  lady,  and  that 
of  her  sister,  Miss  Mary  Beever,  I  am  indebted  for  the  four 
plants  figured  in  this  number.” 

I  have  copied  lest  you  should  have  trouble  in  looking  for 
the  book,  but  now,  you  darling  Susie,  please  tell  me  whether 
I  may  not  separate  these  lovely  pearlworts  wholly  from  the 
spergulas — by  the  pearlworts  having  only  two  leaves  like  real 
pinks  at  the  joints,  and  the  spergulas,  a  cluster  ;  and  tell  me 
how  the  spergulas  scatter  their  seeds,  I  can’t  find  any  account 
of  it. 


I  would  fain  have  come  to  see  that  St.  Bruno  lily ;  but  if  I 
don’t  come  to  see  Susie  and  you,  be  sure  I  am  able  to  come 
to  see  nothing.  At  present  I  am  very  deeply  involved  in  the 
classification  of  the  minerals  in  the  Sheffield  Museum,  impor¬ 
tant  as  the  first  practical  arrangement  ever  yet  attempted  for 
popular  teaching,  and  this  with  my  other  work  makes  me  fit 
for  nothing  in  the  afternoon  but  wood-chopping.  But  I  will 
call  to-day  on  Dr.  Brown’s  friends. 


IIORTITS  I  Is  CL  US  US. 


45 


I  hope  you  will  not  be  too  much  shocked  with  the  audacities 
of  the  new  number  of  “  Proserpina,”  or  with  its  ignorances. 
I  am  going  during  my  wood-chopping  really  to  ascertain  in 
my  own  way  what  simple  persons  ought  to  know  about  tree 
growth,  and  give  it  clearly  in  the  next  number.  I  meant  to  do 
the  whole  book  very  differently,  but  can  only  now  give  the 
fragmentary  pieces  as  they  chance  to  come,  or  it  would  never 
be  done  at  all. 

You  must  know  before  anybody  else  how  the  exogens  are 
to  be  completely  divided.  I  keep  the  four  great  useful 
groups,  mallow,  geranium,  mint,  and  wall-flower,  under  the 
head  of  domestic  orders,  that  their  sweet  service  and  com¬ 
panionship  with  us  may  be  understood  ;  then  the  water-lily 
and  the  heath,  both  four  foils,  are  to  be  studied  in  their  soli¬ 
tudes  (I  shall  throw  all  that  are  not  four  foils  out  of  the  Eri¬ 
caceae)  ;  then  finally  there  are  to  be  seven  orders  of  the  dark 
proserpine,  headed  by  the  draconids  (snapdragons),  and  in¬ 
cluding  the  anemones,  hellebores,  ivies,  and  forget-me-nots. 

What  plants  I  cannot  get  arranged  under  these  12 -f  4  +  2  + 
7  =  25  in  all,  orders,  I  shall  give  broken  notices  of,  as  I  have 
time,  leaving  my  pupils  to  arrange  them  as  they  like.  I  can’t 
do  it  all. 

The  whole  household  was  out  after  breakfast  to-day  to  the 
top  of  the  moor  to  plant  cranberries  ;  and  we  squeezed  and 
splashed  and  spluttered  in  the  boggiest  places  the  lovely  sun¬ 
shine  had  left,  till  we  found  places  squashy  and  squeezy 
enough  to  please  the  most  particular  and  coolest  of  cranberry 
minds  ;  and  then  each  of  us  choosing  a  little  special  bed  of 
bog,  the  tufts  were  deeply  put  in  with  every  manner  of  tacit 
benediction,  such  as  might  befit  a  bog  and  a  berry,  and  many 
an  expressed  thanksgiving  to  Susie  and  to  the  kind  sender  of 
the  luxuriant  plants.  I  have  never  had  gift  from  you,  dear 
Susie,  more  truly  interesting  and  gladdening  to  me,  and  many 
a  day  I  shall  climb  the  moor  to  see  the  fate  of  the  plants  and 
look  across  to  the  Tliwaite.  I’ve  been  out  most,  of  the  fore¬ 
noon  and  am  too  sleepy  to  shape  letters,  but  will  try  and  get 
a  word  of  thanks  to  the  far  finder  of  the  dainty  things  to¬ 


morrow. 


HORTtJS  INCLUSTTS. 


*  4  G 

Wliat  loveliness  everywhere  in  a  duckling  sort  of  state  just 
now. 


2Wl  November. 

We’ve  all  been  counting  and  considering  how  old  you  can 
possibly  be  to-day,  and  have  made  up  our  minds  that  you  are 
really  thirteen,  and  must  begin  to  be  serious.  There  have 
been  some  hints  about  the  necessity  of  sending  you  to  school, 
which  I  have  taken  no  notice  of,  hoping  that  you  will  really 
at  last  make  up  your  mind  to  do  your  lessons  at  home  like  a 
dear  good  little  girl  as  you  are.  And  because  to-day  you 
enter  into  your  “  teens  ”  I  have  sent  you  a  crystal,  and  a  little 
bit  of  native  gold,  and  a  little  bit  of  native  silver,  for  symbols 
of  this  lovely  “  nativity  ”  of  previous  years  ;  and  I  do  wish 
you  all  love  and  joy  and  peace  in  them. 


TO  MISS  BEEVER. 

20 th  January ,  1879. 

You  will  not  doubt  the  extreme  sorrow  with  which  I  have 
heard  of  all  that  was  ordered  to  be,  of  terrible,  in  your  peace¬ 
ful  and  happy  household.  Without  for  an  instant  supposing, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  utterly  refusing  to  admit,  that  such 
calamities*  may  be  used  to  point  a  moral  (all  useful  morality 
having  every  point  that  God  meant  it  to  have,  perfectly  sharp 
and  bright  without  any  burnishing  of  ours),  still  less  to  adorn 
a  tale  (the  tales  of  modern  days  depending  far  too  much  upon 
Scythian  decoration  with  Death’s  heads)  ;  I,  yet,  if  I  had  been 
Mr.  Chapman,  would  have  pointed  out  that  all  concealments, 
even  of  trivial  matters,  on  the  part  of  young  servants  from 
kind  mistresses,  are  dangerous  no  less  than  unkind  and  un¬ 
generous,  and  that  a  great  deal  of  preaching  respecting  the 
evil  nature  of  man  and  the  anger  of  God  might  be  spared,  if 
children  and  servants  were  only  taught,  as  a  religious  prin- 


*  One  of  onr  younger  servants  had  gone  on  to  the  frozen  lake  ;  the  ice 
gave  way,  and  she  was  drowned. — S.  B. 


n  OUT  US  INGLUSUS. 


47 


ciple,  to  tell  their  mothers  and  mistresses,  when  they  go  out, 
exactly  where  they  are  going  and  what  they  are  going  to  do. 
I  think  both  you  and  Miss  Susan  ought  to  use  every  possible 
means  of  changing,  or  at  least  checking,  the  current  of  such 
thoughts  in  your  minds  ;  and  I  am  in  hopes  that  you  may  have 
a  little  pleasure  in  examining  the  plates  in  the  volume  of  Sib- 
thorpe’s  “F.  Grseca”  which  I  send  to-day,  in  comparison  with 
those  of  “F.  Danica.”  The  vulgarity  and  lifelessness  of  Sib- 
thorpe’s  plates  are  the  more  striking,  because  in  mere  execu¬ 
tion  they  are  the  more  elaborate  of  the  two  ;  the  chief  point 
in  the  “F.  Danica”  being  the  lovely  artistic  skill.  The  draw¬ 
ings  for  Sibthorpe,  by  a  young  German,  were  as  exquisite  as 
the  Danes,  but  the  English  engraver  and  colorist  spoiled  all. 

I  will  send  you,  if  you  like  them,  the  other  volumes  in  suc¬ 
cession.  I  find  immense  interest  in  comparing  the  Greek 
and  Danish  forms  or  conditions  of  the  same  English  flower. 

I  send  the  second  volume,  in  which  the  Rufias  are  lovely, 
and  scarcely  come  under  my  above  condemnation.  The  first 
is  nearly  all  of  grass. 


4  th  February. 

You  know  I’m  getting  my  Oxford  minerals  gradually  to 
Brantwood,  and  whenever  a  box  comes,  I  think  whether  there 
are  any  that  I  don’t  want  myself,  which  might  yet  have  leave 
to  live  on  Susie’s  table.  And  to-day  I’ve  found  a  very  soft 
purple  agate,  that  looks  as  if  it  were  nearly  melted  away 
with  pity  for  birds  and  flies,  which  is  like  Susie  ;  and  an¬ 
other  piece  of  hard  wooden  agate  with  only  a  little  ragged 
sky  of  blue  here  and  there,  which  is  like  me  ;  and  a  group  of 
crystals  with  grass  of  Epidote  inside,  which  is  like  wrhat  my 
own  little  cascade  has  been  all  the  winter  by  the  garden  side  ; 
and  so  I’ve  had  them  all  packed  up,  and  I  hope  you  will  let 
them  live  at  the  Thwaite. 

Then  here  are  some  more  bits,  if  you  will  be  a  child. 
Here’s  a  green  piece,  long,  of  the  stone  they  cut  those  green, 

weedy  brooches  out  of,  and  a  nice  mouse-colored  natural  agate, 


48 


II  OUT  ITS  INCLUSUS. 


and  a  great  black  and  white  one,  stained  with  sulphuric  acid, 
black,  but  very  fine  always,  and  interesting  in  its  lines. 

Oh,  dear,  the  cold  ;  but  it’s  worth  any  cold  to  have  that 
delicious  Robin  dialogue.  Please  write  some  more  of  it  ; 
you  hear  all  they  say,  I’m  sure. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  delighted  I  am  with  your  lovely  gift 
to  Joanie.  The  perfection  of  the  stone,  its  exquisite  color, 
and  superb  weight,  and  flawless  clearness,  and  the  delicate 
cutting,  which  makes  the  light  flash  from  it  like  a  wave  of 
the  Lake,  make  it  altogether  the  most  perfect  mineralogical 
and  heraldic  jewel  that  Joanie  could  be  bedecked  with,  and 
it  is  as  if  Susie  had  given  her  a  piece  of  Coniston  Water  it¬ 
self. 

And  the  setting  is  delicious,  and  positively  must  not  be 
altered.  I  shall  come  on  Sunday  to  thank  you  myself  for 
it.  Meantime  I’m  working  hard  at  the  Psalter,  which  I  am 
almost  sure  Susie  will  like. 


25  th  May. 

This  is  a  most  wonderful  stone  that  Dr.  Kendall  has  found 
— at  least  to  me.  I  have  never  seen  anything  quite  like  it, 
the  arborescent  forms  of  the  central  thread  of  iron  being 
hardly  ever  assumed  by  an  ore  of  so  much  metallic  lustre.  I 
think  it  would  be  very  desirable  to  cut  it,  so  as  to  get  a  per¬ 
fectly  smooth  surface  to  show  the  arborescent  forms  ;  if  Dr. 
Kendall  would  like  to  have  it  done,  I  can  easily  send  it  up  to 
London  with  my  own  next  parcel. 

I  want  very  much  to  know  exactly  where  it  was  found  ; 
might  I  come  and  ask  about  it  on  Dr.  Kendall’s  next  visit  to 
you  ?  I  could  be  there  waiting  for  him  any  day. 

I  am  thinking  greatly  of  our  George  Herbert,  but  me’s  so 
wficked  I  don’t  know  where  to  begin. 

But  I  never  have  had  nicer  letters  “  since  first  I  saw  your 
face  ”  and  tried  to  honor  and  reverence  you. 

Violet’s  better,  and  I’m  pretty  well,  but  have  a  little  too 
much  thinking  of  old  days, 


ITOli T US  INOLUSUS. 


49 


Have  you  any  word  of  the  Collies  lately  ?  I  keep  sending 
stones  and  books  ;  they  answer  not.  It  is  delightful  of  you 
to  be  interested  in  that  stone  book.  I  send  you  one  of  my 
pictures  of  stones.  They’re  not  very  like,  but  they’re  pretty. 
I  wish  they  did  such  pictures  now. 

What  lovely  pies  (pictures  ?)  you  would  have  made,  in  the 
old  butterfly  times,  of  opal  and  felspar  !  What  lost  creat¬ 
ures  we  all  are,  we  nice  ones !  The  Alps  and  clouds  that  1 
could  have  done,  if  I  had  been  shown  how. 


27 th  June. 

Everybody’s  gone  !  and  I  have  all  the  new  potatoes,  and  all 
the  asparagus,  and  all  the  oranges  and  everything,  and  my 
Susie  too,  all  to  myself. 

I  wrote  in  my  diary  this  morning  that  really  on  the  whole 
I  never  felt  better  in  my  life.  Mouth,  eyes,  head,  feet,  and 
fingers  all  fairly  in  trim  ;  older  than  they  were,  yes,  but  if 
the  head  and  heart  grow  wiser,  they  won’t  want  feet  or 
fingers  some  day. 

Indeed  that  is  too  sad  about  Florence.  I’ve  written  a  line 
to  her  by  this  post,  and  will  do  all  the  little  I  can  to  cheer 
her. 

And  I’ll  come  to  be  cheered  and  scolded  myself  the 
moment  I’ve  got  things  a  little  to  rights  here.  I  think  imps 
get  into  the  shelves  and  drawers,  if  they’re  kept  long  locked, 
and  must  be  caught  like  mice.  The  boys  have  been  very 
good,  and  left  everything  untouched  but  the  imps ;  and  to 
hear  people  say  there  aren’t  any !  How  happy  you  and  I 
should  always  be  if  it  weren’t  for  them  !  But  we’re  both  so 
naughty  we  can’t  expect  them  to  let  us  alone.  Can  we  ? 

How  gay  you  were  and  how  you  cheered  me  up  after  the 
dark  lake. 

Please  say  “John  Inglesant”  is  harder  than  real  history 
and  of  no  mortal  use.  I  couldn’t  read  four  pages  of  it. 
Clever,  of  course. 

4 


50 


HORTUS  INGLUSU8. 


Herne  Hill,  14 th  August ,  1880. 

I’ve  just  finished  my  Scott  paper,  but  it  has  retouchings 
and  notings  yet  to  do.  I  couldn’t  write  a  word  before ; 
haven’t  so  much  as  a  syllable  to  Diddie,  and  only  a  move  at 
chess  to  Macdonald,  for  you  know,  to  keep  a  chess-player 
waiting  for  a  move  is  like  keeping  St.  Lawrence  unturned. 


21  st  August ,  1880. 

I’m  leaving  to-day  for  Dover,  and  a  line  from  you  to-morrow 
or  Monday  would  find  me  certainly  at  Poste  Restante,  Abbe¬ 
ville,  and  please,  please  tell  me  the  funny  thing  Miss - 

said. 

I  have  not  been  working  at  all,  but  enjoying  myself 
(only  that  takes  up  time  all  the  same)  at  Crystal  Palace 
concerts,  and  jugglings,  and  at  Zoological  Gardens,  where  I 
had  a  snake  seven  feet  long  to  play  with,  only  I  hadn’t  much 
time  to  make  friends,  and  it  rather  wanted  to  get  away  all 
the  time.  And  I  gave  the  hippopotamus  whole  buns,  and  he 
was  delighted,  and  saw  the  cormorant  catch  fish  thrown  to 
him  six  yards  off;  never  missed  one  ;  you  would  have  thought 
the  fish  ran  along  a  wire  up  to  him  and  down  his  throat. 
And  I  saw  the  penguin  swim  under  water,  and  the  seasons 
sit  up,  four  of  them  on  four  wooden  chairs,  and  catch  fish 
also  ;  but  they  missed  sometimes  and  had  to  flop  off  their 
chairs  into  the  water,  and  then  flop  out  again  and  flop  up 
again. 

And  I  lunched  with  Cardinal  Manning,  and  he  gave  me 
such  a  plum  pie.  I  never  tasted  a  Protestant  pie  to  touch  it. 


Now  you’re  just  wrong  about  my  darling  Cardinal.  See 
what  it  is  to  be  jealous !  He  gave  me  lovely  soup,  roast 
beef,  hare  and  currant  jelly,  puff  pastry  like  Papal  preten¬ 
sions — you  had  but  to  breathe  on  it  and  it  was  nowhere — 
raisins  and  almonds,  and  those  lovely  preserved  cherries  like 


HORTUS  INGLU8US.  51 

kisses  kept  in  amber.  And  told  me  delicious  stories  all 
through  lunch.  There! 

And  we  really  do  see  the  sun  here !  And  last  night  the 
sky  was  all  a  spangle  and  delicate  glitter  of  stars,  the  glare  of 
them  and  spikiness  softened  off  by  a  young  darling  of  a 

moon. 

And  I’m  having  rather  a  time  of  it  in  boudoirs,  turned  into 
smiling  instead  of  pouting  service.  But  I’m  not  going  to 
stay  over  my  three  weeks.  How  nice  that  you  can  and  will 
walk  round  the  dining-room  for  exercise  ! 


Calais,  2Ath  August. 

I’m  not  very  far  away  yet,  you  see.  I  stayed  here  for 
auld  lang  syne,  but  with  endless  sorrow,  of  which  I  need  not 
give  you  any  part  of  the  burden. 

The  sea  has  been  beautiful,  and  I  am  better  for  the  great 
rest  and  change. 


Amiens,  29 th  August. 

You  have  been  made  happy  doubtless  with  us  by  the  news 
from  Herne  Hill.  I’ve  only  a  telegram  yet  though,  but  write 
at  once  to  congratulate  you  on  your  little  goddaughter. 

Also  to  say  that  I  am  very  well,  and  sadly  longing  for 
Brantwood  ;  but  that  I  am  glad  to  see  some  vestige  of  beloved 
things  here,  once  more. 

We  have  glorious  weather,  and  I  am  getting  perfect  rest 
most  of  the  day — mere  saunter  in  the  sunnj^  air,  taking  all  the 
good  I  can  of  it.  To-morrow  we  get  (D.  V.)  to  Beauvais, 
where  perhaps  I  may  find  a  letter  from  Susie  ;  in  any  case 
you  may  write  to  Hotel  Meurice,  Paris. 

The  oleanders  are  coming  out  and  geraniums  in  all  cottage 
windows,  and  golden  corn  like  Etruscan  jewelry  over  all  the 
fields. 


Beauvais,  3d  September. 

We  are  having  the  most  perfect  weather  I  ever  saw  in 
France,  much  less  anywhere  else,  and  I’m  taking  a  thorough 


52 


no  nr  us  inclusus . 


rest,  writing  scarcely  anything  and  sauntering  about  old  town 
streets  all  day. 

I  made  a  little  sketch  of  the  lake  from  above  the  Waterhead 
which  goes  everywhere  with  me,  and  it  is  so  curious  when  the 
wind  blows  the  leaf  open  when  I  am  sketching  here  at  Beau¬ 
vais,  where  all  is  so  differently  delightful,  as  if  we  were  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world. 

I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  write  some  passages  about  archi¬ 
tecture  yet,  which  Susie  will  like.  I  hear  of  countless 
qualities  being  discovered  in  the  new  little  Susie  !  And  all 
things  will  be  happy  for  me  if  you  send  me  a  line  to  Hotel 
Meurice,  saying  you  are  happy  too. 


Paris,  4 th  September. 

I  have  all  your  letters,  and  rejoice  in  them  ;  though  it  is  a 
little  sadder  for  you  looking  at  empty  Brantwood,  than  for  me 
to  fancy  the  bright  full  Thwaite,  and  then  it’s  a  great  shame 
that  I’ve  everything  to  amuse  me,  and  lovely  Louvres  and 
shops  and  cathedrals  and  coquettes  and  pictures  and  plays 
and  prettinesses  of  every  color  and  quality,  and  you’ve  only 
your  old,  old  hills  and  quiet  lake.  Very  thankful  I  shall  be 
to  get  back  to  them,  though. 

We  have  finished  our  Paris  this  afternoon,  and  hope  to 
leave  for  Chartres  on  Monday. 


Hotel  de  Meurice,  Paris,  4 th  September. 

Is  it  such  pain  to  you  when  people  say  what  they  ought  not 
to  say  about  me  ?  But  when  do  they  say  what  they  ought  to 
say  about  anything  ?  Nearly  everything  I  have  ever  done  or 
said  is  as  much  above  the  present  level  of  public  understand¬ 
ing  as  the  Old  Man  is  above  the  Waterhead. 

We  have  had  the  most  marvellous  weather  thus  far,  and 
have  seen  Paris  better  than  ever  I’ve  seen  it  yet — and  to-day  at 
the  Louvre  we  saw  the  Casette  of  St.  Louis,  the  Coffre  of 
Anne  of  Austria,  the  porphyry  vase,  made  into  an  eagle,  of  an 


IIORTUS  INCLTTSUS. 


53 


old  Abbe  Segur,  or  some  such  name.  All  these  you  can  see 
also,  you  know,  in  those  lovely  photographs  of  Miss  Kigbye’s, 
if  you  can  only  make  out  in  this  vile  writing  of  mine  what  I 
mean. 

But  it  is  so  hot.  I  can  scarcely  sit  up  or  hold  the  pen,  but 
tumble  back  into  the  chair  every  half-minute  and  unbutton 
another  button  of  waistcoat,  and  gasp  a  little,  and  nod  a  little, 
and  wink  a  little,  and  sprinkle  some  eau  de  Cologne  a  little, 
and  try  a  little  to  write  a  little,  and  forget  what  I  had  to  say, 
and  where  I  was,  and  whether  it’s  Susie  or  Joan  I’m  writing 
to  ;  and  then  I  see  some  letters  I’ve  never  opened  that  came 
by  this  morning’s  post,  and  think  I’d  better  open  them  per¬ 
haps  ;  and  here  I  find  in  one  of  them  a  delightful  account  of 
the  quarrel  that  goes  on  in  this  weather  between  the  nicest 
elephant  in  the  Zoo’  and  his  keeper,  because  he  won’t  come 
out  of  his  bath.  I  saw  them  at  it  myself,  when  I  was  in 
London,  and  saw  the  elephant  take  up  a  stone  and  throw  it  hard 
against  a  door  which  the  keeper  was  behind — but  my  friend 
writes,  “  I  must  believe  from  what  I  saw  that  the  elephant 
knew  he  would  injure  the  man  with  the  stones,  for  he  threw 
them  hard  to  the  side  of  him,  and  then  stood  his  ground ; 
when,  however,  he  threw  water  and  wetted  the  man,  ho 
plunged  into  the  bath  to  avoid  the  whip  ;  not  fearing  punish¬ 
ment  when  he  merely  showed  what  he  could  do  and  did  not. 

The  throwing  the  stone  hard  at  the  door  when  the  keeper 
was  on  the  other  side  of  it,  must  have  been  great  fun  for  him  ! 

I  am  so  sorry  to  have  crushed  this  enclosed  scrawl.  It  has 
been  carried  about  in  my  pocket  to  be  finished,  and  I  see 
there’s  no  room  for  the  least  bit  of  love  at  the  bottom,  bo 
here’s  a  leaf  full  from  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  which  is  very 
lovely  ;  and  we  drive  about  by  night  or  day,  as  if  all  the  sky 
were  only  the  roof  of  a  sapphire  palace  set  with  warm  stars. 


Ciiartres,  8 th  September. 

( Hotel  du  Grand  Monarque. ) 

I  suppose  Vm  the  grand  Monarque  !  I  don  t  know  of  any 
other  going  just  now,  but  I  don’t  feel  quite  the  right  thing 


54 


II  OUT  US  INCLUSUS. 


without  a  wig.  Anyhow,  I’m  having  everything  my  own  way 
just  now — weather,  dinner,  news  from  Joanie  and  news  from 
Susie,  only  I  don’t  like  her  to  be  so  very,  very  sad,  though  it 
is  nice  to  be  missed  so  tenderly.  But  I  do  hope  you  will  like 
to  think  of  my  getting  some  joy  in  old  ways  again,  and  once 
more  exploring  old  streets  and  finding  forgotten  churches. 

The  sunshine  is  life  and  health  to  me,  and  I  am  gaining 
knowledge  faster  than  ever  I  could  when  I  was  young. 

This  is  just  to  say  where  I  am,  and  that  you  might  know 
where  to  write. 

The  cathedral  here  is  the  grandest  in  France,  and  I  stay  a 
week  at  least. 


Chartres,  13 th  September. 

I  must  be  back  in  England  by  the  1st  October,  and  by  the 
10th  shall  be  myself  ready  to  start  for  Brantwood,  but  may 
perhaps  stay,  if  Joanie  is  not  ready,  till  she  can  come  too. 
Anyway,  I  trust  very  earnestly  to  be  safe  in  the  shelter  of  my 
own  woodside  by  the  end  of  October.  I  wonder  what  you 
will  say  of  my  account  of  the  Five  Lovers  of  Nature*  and  se¬ 
clusion  in  the  last  Nineteenth  Century. 

I  am  a  little  ashamed  to  find  that,  in  spite  of  my  sublimely 
savage  temperament,  I  take  a  good  deal  more  pleasure  in 
Paris  than  of  old,  and  am  even  going  back  there  on  Friday 
for  three  more  days. 

We  find  the  people  here  very  amiable,  and  the  French  old 
character  unchanged.  The  perfect  cleanliness  and  unruffled¬ 
ness  of  white  cap  is  always  a  marvel,  and  the  market  groups 
exquisite,  but  our  enjoyment  of  the  fair  is  subdued  by  pity 
for  a  dutiful  dog,  who  turns  a  large  wheel  (by  walking  up  it 
inside)  the  whole  afternoon,  producing  awful  sounds  out  of  a 
huge  grinding  organ,  of  which  his  wheel  and  he  are  the  un¬ 
fortunate  instruments.  Him  we  love,  his  wheel  we  hate  !  and 
in  general  all  French  musical  instruments.  I  have  become 
quite  sure  of  one  thing  on  this  journey,  that  the  French  of 


*  Rousseau,  Shelley,  Byron,  Turner,  and  John  Ruskiu. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


to-day  have  no  sense  of  harmony,  but  only  of  more  or  less 
lively  tune,  and  even,  for  a  time,  will  be  content  with  any 
kind  of  clash  or  din  produced  in  time. 

The  Cathedral  service  is,  however,  still  impressive. 


1  Sth  February ,  1881. 

I  ve  much  to  tell  you  “  to-day  ”*  of  answer  to  those  prayers 
you  prayed  for  me.  But  you  must  be  told  it  by  our  good 
angels,  for  your  eyes  must  not  be  worn.  God  willing,  you 
shall  see  men  as  trees  walking  in  the  garden  of  God,  on  this 
pretty  Coniston  earth  of  ours.  Don’t  be  afraid,  and  please  be 
happy,  for  I  can’t  be,  if  you  are  not.  Love  to  Mary,  to  Miss 
Itigbye,  and  my  own  St.  Ursula,  f  and  mind  you  give  the 
messages  to  all  three,  heartily. 


22d  April. 

I’m  not  able  to  scratch  or  fight  to-day,  or  I  wouldn't  let 
you  cover  me  up  with  this  heap  of  gold  ;  but  I’ve  got  a  rheu¬ 
matic  creak  in  my  neck,  which  makes  me  physically  stilt  and 
morally  supple  and  unprincipled,  so  I’vo  put  two  pounds  six¬ 
teen  in  my  own  “  till,”  where  it  just  fills  up  some  lowering  of 
the  tide  lately  by  German  bands  and  the  like  ;  and  I’ve  put 
ten  pounds  aside  for  Sheffield  Museum,  now  in  instant  men¬ 
dicity  ;  and  I’ve  put  ten  pounds  aside  till  you  and  I  can  have 
a  talk  and  you  be  made  reasonable,  after  being  scolded  and 
scratched  ;  after  which,  on  your  promiso  to  keep  to  our  old 
bargain  and  enjoy  spending  your  little  “Frondes”  income, 
I’ll  be  your  lovingest  again.  And  for  the  two  pounds  ten, 
and  the  ten,  I  am  really  most  heartily  grateful,  meaning  as 
they  do  so  much  that  is  delightful  for  both  of  us  in  the  good 
done  by  this  work  of  yours. 

I  send  you  Spenser ;  perhaps  you  had  better  begin  with 


*  The  motto  on  Mr.  Ruskin’s  seal.  See  Praeterita,  Vol.  II.,  p.  286. 
\  Photograph  of  Carpaccio’s. 


50 


nORTUS  IN  GL  US  US. 


the  Hymn  to  Beauty,  page  39,  and  then  go  on  to  the  Tears  ; 
but  you’ll  see  how  you  like  it.  It’s  better  than  Longfellow  ; 
see  line  52 - 

“The  house  of  blessed  gods  which  men  call  skye.” 

Now  I’m  going  to  look  out  Dr.  Kendall’s  crystal.  It  must 
be  crystal,*  for  having  brought  back  the  light  to  your  eyes. 


12 th  July. 

How  delightful  that  you  have  that  nice  Mrs.  Howard  to 
hear  you  say  “The  Ode  to  Beauty,”  and  how  nice  that  you 
can  learn  it  and  enjoy  saying  it !  j*  I  do  not  know  it  myself. 
I  only  know  that  it  should  be  known  and  said  and  heard  and 
loved. 

I  am  often  near  you  in  thought,  but  can’t  get  over  the  lake, 
somehow.  There’s  always  somebody  to  be  looked  after  here, 
now.  I’ve  to  rout  the  gardeners  out  of  the  greenhouse,  or  I 
should  never  have  a  strawberry  or  a  pink,  but  only  nasty 
gloxinias  and  glaring  fuchsias  ;  and  I’ve  been  giving  lessons  to 
dozens  of  people,  and  writing  charming  sermons  in  the 
“  Bible  of  Amiens  ;  ”  but  I  get  so  sleepy  in  the  afternoon,  I 
can’t  pull  myself  over  it. 

I  was  looking  at  your  notes  on  birds,  yesterday.  How 
sweet  they  are  !  But  I  can’t  forgive  that  young  blackbird  for 
getting  wild  again. 


Last  day  of  1881.  And  the  last  letter 
I  write  on  it ,  with  new  pen. 

I’ve  lunched  on  your  oysters,  and  am  feasting  eyes  and 
mind  on  your  birds. 

What  birds? 


*  For  a  present  to  Dr.  Kendall. 

f  I  learned  the  whole  of  it  by  heart,  and  could  then  say  it  without  a 
break.  1  have  always  loved  it,  and  in  return  it  has  helped  me  through 
many  a  long  and  sleepless  night. — S.  B. 


nORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


57 


Woodcock?  Yes,  I  suppose,  and  never  before  noticed  the 
sheath  of  his  bill  going  over  the  front  of  the  lower  mandible, 
that  he  may  dig  comfortably  !  But  the  others  !  the  glory  of 
velvet  and  silk  and  cloud  and  light,  and  black  and  tan  and 
gold,  and  golden  sand,  and  dark  tresses,  and  purple  shadows, 
and  moors  and  mists,  and  night  and  starlight,  and  woods  and 
wilds,  and  dells  and  deeps,  and  every  mystery  of  heaven  and 
its  finger-work,  is  in  those  little  birds’  backs  and  wings.  I 
am  so  grateful.  All  love  and  joy  to  you,  and  wings  to  fly 
with  and  birds’  hearts  to  comfort,  and  mine,  be  to  you  in  the 
coming  year. 


Easter  Day ,  1882. 

I  have  had  a  happy  Easter  morning,  entirely  bright  in  its 
sun  and  clear  in  sky  ;  and  with  renewed  strength,  enough  to 
begin  again  the  piece  of  St.  Benedict’s  life,  where  I  broke  off 
to  lose  these  four  weeks  in  London — weeks  not  wholly  lost, 
neither,  for  I  have  learned  more  and  more  of  what  I  should 
have  known  without  lessoning  ;  but  I  have  learnt  it,  from 
these  repeated  dreams  and  fantasies,  that  we  walk  in  a  vain 
shadow,  and  disquiet  ourselves  in  vain.  So  I  am  for  the 
present,  everybody  says,  quite  good,  and  give  as  little  trouble 
as  possible  ;  but  people  will  take  it,  you  know,  sometimes, 
even  when  I  don’t  give  it,  and  there’s  a  great  fuss  about  mo 
yet.  But  you  must  not  be  anxious  any  more,  Susie,  for 
really  there  is  no  more  occasion  at  one  time  than  another. 
All  the  doctors  say  I  needn’t  be  ill  unless  I  like,  and  I  don’t 
mean  to  like  any  more ;  and  as  far  as  chances  of  ordinary 
danger,  I  think  one  runs  more  risks  in  a  single  railway  journey 
than  in  the  sicknesses  of  a  whole  year. 


8  th  June. 

You  write  as  well  as  ever,  and  the  eyes  must  surely  bo 
better,  and  it  was  a  joyful  amazement  to  mo  to  hear  that 
Mary  was  able  to  read  and  could  enjoy  my  child’s  botany. 
You  always  have  things  before  other  people ;  will  you  pleaso 


58 


n  OUT  US  1N0LUSUS. 


send  me  some  rosemary  and  lavender  as  soon  as  they  are  out? 
I  am  busy  on  tlie  Labiatm,  and  a  good  deal  bothered.  Also 
St.  Benedict,  whom  I  shall  get  done  with  long  before  I’ve 
made  out  the  nettles  he  rolled  in. 

I’m  sure  I  ought  to  roll  myself  in  nettles,  burdocks,  and 
blackthorn,  for  here  in  London  I  can’t  really  think  now  of 
anything  but  flirting,  and  I’m  only  much  the  worse  for  it 
afterward. 

And  I’m  generally  wicked  and  weary,  like  the  people  who 
ought  to  be  put  to  rest.  But  you’d  miss  me,  and  so  would 
Joanie  ;  so  I  suppose  I  shall  be  let  stay  a  little  while  longer. 


Sallencites,  Savoy,  13 th  September. 

I  saw  Mont  Blanc  again  to-day,  unseen  since  1877  ;  and  was 
very  thankful.  It  is  a  sight  that  always  redeems  me  to  what 
I  am  capable  of  at  ray  poor  little  best,  and  to  what  loves  and 
memories  are  most  precious  to  me.  So  I  write  to  you ,  one  of 
the  few  true  loves  left.  The  snow  has  fallen  fresh  on  the 
hills,  and  it  makes  me  feel  that  I  must  soon  be  seeking 
shelter  at  Brantwood  and  the  Thwaite. 


Genoa,  Sunday ,  24/7^  September. 

I  got  your  delightful  note  yesterday  at  Turin,  and  it  made 
me  wish  to  run  back  through  the  tunnel  directly  instead  of 
coming  on  here.  But  I  had  a  wonderful  day,  the  Alps  clear 
all  the  morning  all  round  Italy — two  hundred  miles  of  them  ; 
and  then  in  the  afternoon  blue  waves  of  the  Gulf  of  Genoa 
breaking  like  blue  clouds,  thunder-clouds,  under  groves  of 
olive  and  palm.  But  I  wished  they  were  my  sparkling  waves 
of  Coniston  instead,  when  I  read  your  letter  again. 

What  a  gay  Susie,  receiving  all  the  world,  like  a  Queen 
Susan  (how  odd  one  has  never  heard  of  a  Queen  Susan  !),  only 
you  arc  so  naughty,  and  you  never  do  tell  me  of  any  of  those 
nice  girls  when  they’re  coming „  but  only  when  they’re  gone, 
and  I  never  shall  get  glimpse  of  them  as  long  as  I  live. 


HORTUS  WCLUSUS. 


59 


But  you  know  you  really  represent  the  entire  Buskin 
school  of  the  Lake  Country,  and  I  think  these  levees  of  yours 
must  be  very  amusing  and  enchanting  ;  but  it’s  very  dear  and 
good  of  you  to  let  the  people  come  and  enjoy  themselves,  and 
how  really  well  and  strong  you  must  be  to  be  able  for  it. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  of  those  sweet,  shy  girls,  poor 
things.*  I  suppose  the  sister  they  are  now  anxious  about  is 
the  one  that  would  live  by  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Lake,  and  study  Emerson  and  aspire  to  Buddhism. 

I’m  trying  to  put  my  own  poor  little  fragmentary  Ism  into 
a  rather  more  connected  form  of  imagery.  I’ve  never  quito 
set  myself  up  enough  to  impress  some  people  ;  and  I’ve 
written  so  much  that  I  can’t  quite  make  out  what  I  am  my¬ 
self,  nor  what  it  all  comes  to. 


1( )th  Junuary ,  1883. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  and  glad  I  am,  to  have  your 
lovely  note  and  to  know  that  the  Bewick  gave  you  pleasure, 
and  that  you  are  so  entirely  well  now,  as  to  enjoy  anything 
requiring  so  much  energy  and  attention  to  this  degree.  For 
indeed  I  can  scarcely  now  take  pleasure  myself  in  things  that 
give  me  the  least  trouble  to  look  at,  but  I  know  that  the 
pretty  book  and  its  chosen  woodcuts  ought  to  be  sent  to  you, 
first  of  all  my  friends  (I  have  not  yet  thought  of  sending  it  to 
anyone  else),  and  I  am  quite  put  in  heart  after  a  very  despon¬ 
dent  yesterday,  past  inanely,  in  thinking  of  what  I  couldn't  do, 
by  feeling  what  you  can ,  and  hoping  to  share  the  happy 
Christmas  time  with  you  and  Susie  in  future  years.  Will  you 
please  tell  my  dear  Susie  I’m  going  to  bring  over  a  drawing 
to  show  !  (so  thankful  that  I  am  still  able  to  draw  after  these 
strange  and  terrible  illnesses)  this  afternoon.  I  am  in  hopes  it 
may  clear,  but  dark  or  bright  I’m  coming,  about  half-past 
three,  and  am  ever  your  and  her  most  affectionate  and  faithful 
servant. 


*  Florence,  Alice,  and  May  Bennett.  Florence  is  gone.  Alice  and 
May  still  sometimes  at  Coniston,  D.  G.  (March,  1887). 


CO 


IIORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


%lth  September ,  1884. 

I  wandered  literally  “  up  and  down  ”  your  mountain 
garden — (liow  beautifully  the  native  rocks  slope  to  its  paths 
in  the  sweet  evening  light,  Susiesque  light !) — with  great 
happiness  and  admiration,  as  I  went  home,  and  I  came  indeed 
upon  what  I  conceived  to  be — discovered  in  the  course  of 
recent  excavations — two  deeply  interesting  thrones  of  the 
ancient  Abbots  of  Furness,  typifying  their  humility  in  that 
the  seats  thereof  were  only  level  with  the  ground  between  two 
clusters  of  the  earth  ;  contemplating  cyclamen,  and  then- 
severity  of  penance,  in  the  points  of  stone  prepared  for  the 
mortification  of  their  backs  ;  but  truly,  Susie’s  seat  of  repose 
and  meditation  I  was  unable  as  yet  to  discern,  but  propose  to 
myself  further  investigation  of  that  apple-perfumed  paradise, 
and  am  ever  your  devoted  and  enchanted. 


1st  December. 

I  gave  my  fourteenth,  and  last  for  this  year,  lecture  this 
afternoon  with  vigor  and  effect,  and  am  safe  and  well  (D.  G.), 
after  such  a  spell  of  work  as  I  never  did  before.  I  have  been 
thrown  a  week  out  in  all  my  plans,  by  having  to  write  two  new 
Lectures,  instead  of  those  the  University  was  frightened  at. 
The  scientists  slink  out  of  my  way  now,  as  if  I  was  a  mad  dog, 
for  I  let  them  have  it  hot  and  heavy  whenever  I’ve  a  chance 
at  them. 

But  as  I  said,  I’m  a  week  late,  and  though  I  start  for  the 
North  this  day  week,  I  can’t  get  home  till  this  day  fortnight  at 
soonest,  but  I  hope  not  later  than  to-  morrow  fortnight.  Very 
thankful  I  shall  be  to  find  myself  again  at  the  little  room  door. 

Fancy  Mary  Gladstone  forgiving  me  even  that  second 
naughtiness  !  She’s  going  to  let  me  come  to  see  her  this 
week,  and  to  play  to  me,  which  is  a  great  comfort. 


St.  Susie,  27 th  November,  1885. 

Behold  Athena  and  Apollo  both  come  to  bless  you  on  your 
birthday,  and  all  the  buds  of  the  year  to  come,  rejoice  with 


II0RTU8  INCLUSUS. 


61 


you,  and  your  poor  cat  *  is  able  to  purr  again,  and  is  extremely 
comfortable  and  even  cheerful  “  to-day.”  And  we  will  make 
more  and  more  of  the  days,  won’t  we,  and  we  will  burn  our 
candle  at  both  beginnings  instead  of  both  ends,  every  day 
beginning  two  worlds — the  old  one  to  be  lived  over  again, 
the  new  to  learn  our  golden  letters  in.  Not  that  I  mean  to 
write  books  in  that  world.  I  hope  to  be  set  to  do  something, 
there  ;  and  what  lovely  “  receptions  ”  you  will  have  in  your 
little  heavenly  Thwaite,  and  celestial  teas.  And  you  won’t 
spoil  the  cream  with  hot  water,  will  you,  any  more  ? 

The  whole  village  is  enjoying  itself,  I  hear,  and  the  widows 
and  orphans  to  be  much  the  better  for  it,  and  altogether,  you 
and  I  have  a  jolly  time  of  it,  haven’t  we  ? 


2  Oth  February ,  1886. 

I  haven’t  had  anything  nice  to  send  you  this  ever  so  long, 
but  here’s  a  little  bird’s  nest  of  native  silver  which  you  could 
almost  live  in  as  comfortably  as  a  tit.  It  will  stand  nicely 
on  your  table  without  upsetting,  and  is  so  comfortable  to 
hold,  and  altogether  I’m  pleased  to  have  got  it  for  you. 


1st  March. 

Yes,  I  knew  you  would  like  that  silver  shrine  !  and  it  is  an 
extremely  rare  and  perfect  specimen.  But  you  need  not  bo 
afraid  in  handling  it  ;  if  the  little  bit  of  spar  does  come  off 
it,  or  out  of  it,  no  matter. 

But  of  course  nobody  else  should  touch  it,  till  you  give 

them  leave,  and  show  them  how. 

I  am  sorry  for  poor  Miss  Brown,  and  for  your  not  having 
known  the  Doctor.  He  should  have  come  here  when  I  told 
him.  I  believe  he  would  have  been  alive  yet,  and  I  never 
should  have  been  ill. 


*J.  R. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


62 


I  believe  jrou  know  more  Latin  than  I  do,  and  can  certainly 
make  more  delightful  use  of  it. 

Your  mornings’  ministry  to  the  birds  must  be  remembered 
for  you  by  the  angels  who  paint  their  feathers.  They  will 
all,  one  day,  be  birds  of  Paradise,  and  say,  when  the  adverse 
angel  accuses  you  of  being  naughty  to  some  people,  “  But  wto 
were  hungry  and  she  gave  us  corn,  and  took  care  that  nobody 
else  ate  it.” 

I  am  indeed  thankful  you  are  better.  But  you  must  please 
tell  me  what  the  thing  was  I  said  which  gave  you  so  much 
pain.  Do  you  recollect  also  what  the  little  bit  in  “  Proser¬ 
pina  ”  was  that  said  so  much  to  you  ?  Were  you  not  think¬ 
ing  of  “  Fors  ?  ” 

I  am  very  thankful  for  all  your  dear  letters  always — greatly 
delighted  above  all  with  the  squirrel  one,  and  Chaucer. 
Didn’t  he  love  squirrels  !  and  don’t  I  wish  I  was  a  squirrel  in 
Susie’s  pear-trees,  instead  of  a  hobbling  disconsolate  old  man, 
with  no  teeth  to  bite,  much  less  crack,  anything,  and  particu¬ 
larly  forbidden  to  eat  nuts  ! 


Your  precious  letter,  showing  me  you  are  a  little  better, 
came  this  morning,  with  the  exquisite  feathers,  one,  darker 
and  lovelier  than  any  I  have  seen,  but  please,  I  still  want  one 
not  in  the  least  flattened  ;  all  these  have  lost  just  the  least 
bit  of  their  shell-like  bending.  You  can  so  easily  devise  a 
little  padding  to  keep  two  strong  cards  or  bits  of  wood  separ¬ 
ate  for  one  or  two  to  lie  happily  in.  I  don’t  mind  giving  you 
this  tease,  for  the  throat  will  bo  better  the  less  you  remember 
it.  But  for  all  of  us,  a  dark  sky  is  assuredly  a  poisonous 
and  depressing  power,  which  neither  surgery  nor  medicine 
can  resist.  The  difference  to  me  between  nature  as  she  is 
now,  and  as  she  was  ten  years  ago,  is  as  great  as  between 
Lapland  and  Italy,  and  the  total  loss  of  comfort  in  morning 
and  evening  sky,  the  most  difficult  to  resist  of  all  spiritual 
hostility 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS . 


63 


1st  May ,  1886. 

What  lovely  letters  you  are  writing  me  just  now,  but  as  for 
my  not  having  said  any  pretty  things  of  you  for  a  long  while, 
you  know  perfectly  that  I  am  saying  them  in  my  heart  every 
day  and  all  day  long  !  I  can’t  find  a  shell  marble,  but  I  send 
you  (to  look  at,  it’s  too  ugly  for  a  present)  a  shell  agate  made 
of  shells,  in  a  shell,  as  if  in  a  pot ! 

And  I  send  you  for  a  May-day  gift,  with  all  loving  May,  June, 
and  December,  and  January  wishes,  such  a  pretty  green  and 
white  stone  gone  maying,  as  one  doesn’t  often  see  with  the 
rest  of  the  Jacks-in-the-green. 

And  I’m  ever  (or  at  least  for  a  while  yet)  your  curled  up  old 
cat.  I  shall  come  out  of  curl  and  get  frisky  when  the 
hyacinths  come  out.  Telegram  just  come  from  Ireland  : 
“  Rose  queen  elected  ;  sweetly  pretty,  and  all  most  happy.” 


22 d  May ,  1886. 

Of  course  the  little  pyramid  in  crystal  is  a  present.  With 
that  enjoyment  of  Pinkerton,*  you  will  have  quite  a  new  in¬ 
doors  interest,  whatever  the  rain  may  say. 

How  very  lucky  you  asked  me  what  basalt  was !  How 
much  has  come  out  of  it  (written  in  falling  asleep)  ?  I’ve 
been  out  all  the  morning  and  am  so  sleepy. 

But  I’ve  written  a  nice  little  bit  of  “  Pra3terita”  before  I 
went  out,  trying  to  describe  the  Rhone  at  Geneva.  I  think 
Susie  will  like  it,  if  nobody  else. 

That  “  not  enjoying  the  beauty  of  things  ”  goes  ever  so 
much  deeper  than  mere  blindness.  It  is  a  form  of  antagon¬ 
ism,  and  is  essentially  Satanic.  A  most  strange  form  of 
demonology  in  otherwise  good  people,  or  shall  we  say  in 
“  good  people  ?  ”  You  know  we  are  not  good  at  all,  are  we, 
now? 

I  don’t  think  you’ve  got  any  green  in  your  mica,  I’ve  sent 
you  a  bit  enclosed  with  some  jealous  spots  in. 


*  Pinkerton  on  Petralogy. 


64 


H  OUT  US  IN  CL  US  US. 


Last  day  of  May. 

I’m  bringing  to-day  with  the  strawroots,  twelve  more 
sketches  in  folio,  and  the  plan  is  that  out  of  those,  making 
with  the  rest  twenty-four,  you  choose  twelve  to  keep  next 
week,  with  the  new  folio  of  twelve  to  be  then  brought,  and 
you  then  put  aside  twelve  to  be  given  back  in  exchange  for  it ; 
then  next  to  next  week  you  choose  twelve  out  of  that  twenty- 
four,  and  then  next  week  twelve  out  of  its  twenty-four,  and 
then  when  I  can’t  send  any  more  you  choose  the  one  to  keep 
out  of  the  last  lot,  which  you  see  will  then  be  the  creamiest 
cream,  not  to  say  cheesiest  cheese  of  the  rest !  Now  isn’t  that 
a  nice  amusing  categorical,  cataloquizical,  catechismic,  cat- 
cataceous  plan? 


7 th  June. 

You  have  been  what  Joanie  calls  a  “  Doosie  Dandy  ”  about 
those  dozens  of  sketches  !  You’re  always  to  have  twenty-four 
on  hand,  then  those  I  send  to-day  are  to  stay  with  the  twelve 
you  have,  till  next  Monday,  and  you’ll  have  time  then  to 
know  which  you  like  best  to  keep.  Next  Monday  I  send 
another  twelve  and  take  back  the  twelve  you’ve  done  with. 

It  was  very  beautiful  yesterday  looking  from  here. 

I’m  pretty  well,  and  writing  saucy  things  to  everybody. 

I  told  a  Cambridge  man  yesterday  that  he  had  been  clever 
enough  to  put  into  a  shilling  pamphlet  all  the  mistakes  of  his 
generation. 


(Mh  November. 

Do  you  know  how  to  make  sugar  candy?  In  my  present 
abject  state  the  only  way  of  amusing  myself  I  can  hit  on  is 
setting  the  girls  of  the  school  to  garden  and  cook  !  I3y  way 
of  beginning  in  cooking,  I  offered  to  pay  for  any  quantity  of 
wasted  sugar  if  they  could  produce  me  a  crystal  or  two  of 
sugar  candy.  (On  the  way  to  twelfth  cakes,  you  know,  and 
sugar  animals.  One  of  Francesca’s  friends  made  her  a  life-size 
Faster  lamb  in  sugar.)  The  first  try  this  morning  was  brought 
me  in  a  state  of  sticky  jelly. 


UORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


65 


And  after  sending  me  a  recipe  for  candy,  would  you  please 
ask  Harry  to  look  at  the  school  garden  ?  I’m  going  to  get 
the  boys  to  keep  that  in  order  ;  but  if  Harry  would  look  at  it 
and  order  some  mine  gravel  down  for  the  walks,  and,  with  Mr. 
Brocklebank’s  authority  (to  whom  I  have  spoken  already), 
direct  any  of  the  boys  who  are  willing  to  form  a  corps  of  little 
gardeners,  and  under  Harry’s  orders  make  the  best  that  can  be 
made  of  that  neglected  bit  of  earth,  I  think  you  and  I  should 
enjoy  hearing  of  it. 

Mr.  Kendall  is  a  Delphic  oracle.  Do  you  think  you  could 
take  sherry  instead  of  port  ?  My  sherry  is — well,  I  only  wish 
Falstaff  were  alive  to  tell  you  what  it  is,  or  Will  himself ;  but 
shall  I  send  you  a  bottle?  And  mind  you  don’t  mind  the 
smarting  if  Dr.  K.  gives  you  things  to  make  you  cry.  And 
I’ll  be  so  good,  and  not  make  you  cry  for  a  week  at  least. 


27 th  November ,  1886. 

For  once,  I  have  a  birthday  stone  for  you,  a  little  worth 
your  having,  and  a  little  gladsome  to  me  in  the  giving.  It  is 
blue  like  the  air  that  you  were  born  into,  and  always  live  in. 
It  is  as  deep  as  gentians,  and  has  their  gleams  of  green  in  it, 
and  it  is  precious  all  through  within  and  without,  as  Susie 
herself  is.  Many  and  many  returns  of  all  the  birthdays  that 
have  gone  away,  and  crowds  yet  of  those  that  never  were  here 
before. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

I  never  heard  the  like,  my  writing  good !  and  just  now  !  !  If 
you  only  saw  the  wretched  notes  on  the  back  of  lecture  leaves. 

But  I  am  so  very  glad  you  think  it  endurable,  and  it  is  so 
nice  to  be  able  to  give  you  a  moment’s  pleasure  by  such  a 
thing.  I’m  better  to-day,  but  still  extremely  languid.  I  be¬ 
lieve  that  there  is  often  something  in  the  spring  which 
weakens  one  by  its  very  tenderness ;  the  violets  in  the  wood 
5 


66 


iron  TTJS  INGLUSUS. 


send  one  home  sorrowful  that  one  isn’t  worthy  to  see  them,  or 
else,  that  one  isn’t  one  of  them. 

It  is  mere  Midsummer  dream  in  the  wood  to-day. 

You  could  not  possibly  have  sent  me  a  more  delightful  pre¬ 
sent  than  this  Lychnis  ;  it  is  the  kind  of  flower  that  gives  me 
pleasure  and  health  and  memory  and  hope  and  everything 
that  Alpine  meadows  and  air  can.  I’m  getting  better  gen¬ 
erally,  too.  The  sun  did  take  one  by  surprise  at  first. 

How  blessedly  happy  Joanie  and  the  children  were  yester¬ 
day  at  the  Thwaite  !  I’m  coming  to  be  happy  myself  there 
to-morrow  (D.  V.). 

Here  are  the  two  bits  of  study  I  did  in  Malham  Cove  ;  the 
small  couples  of  leaves  are  different  portraits  of  the  first  shoots 
of  the  two  geraniums.  I  don’t  find  in  any  botany  an  account 
of  them  little  round  side  leaves,  or  of  the  definite  central  one 
above  the  branching  of  them. 

Here’s  your  lovely  note  just  come.  I  am  very  thankful  that 
“  Venice  ”  gives  you  so  much  pleasure. 

I  have ,  at  least,  one  certainty,  which  few  authors  could  hold 
so  surely,  that  no  one  was  ever  harmed  by  a  book  of  mine  ; 
they  may  have  been  offended,  but  have  never  been  discouraged 
or  discomforted,  still  less  corrupted. 

There's  a  saucy  speech  for  Susie’s  friend.  You  won’t  like 
me  any  more  if  I  begin  to  talk  like  that. 

The  nice  bread  is  come.  May  I  come  to  tea  again  to¬ 
morrow  ? 

I  never  send  my  love  to  Miss  Beever,  but  I  do  love  her  for 
all  that. 


A  sapphire  is  the  same  stone  as  a  ruby  ;  both  are  the  pure 
earth  of  clay  crystallized.  No  one  knows  why  one  is  red  and 
the  other  blue. 

A  diamond  is  pure  coal  crystallized. 

An  opal,  pure  flint — in  a  state  of  fixed  jelly. 

I’ll  find  a  Susie-book  on  them. 

I’ll  send  II.  Carlyle.  I  am  so  very  glad  you  enjoy  it. 

I’m  in  a  great  passion  with  the  horrid  people  who  write 


HOUTUS  IN0LU8US. 


67 


letters  to  tease  my  good  little  Susie.  I  won’t  have  it.  She 
shall  have  some  more  stones  to-morrow. 

I  must  have  a  walk  to-day,  and  can’t  give  account  of  them, 
but  I’ve  looked  them  out.  It’s  so  very  nice  that  you  like 
stones.  If  my  father,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  would  only 
have  given  me  stones  for  bread,  how  I  should  have  thanked 
him,  but  one  doesn’t  expect  such  a  taste  in  little  girls. 

What  infinite  power  and  treasure  you  have  in  being  able 
thus  to  enjoy  the  least  things,  yet  having  at  the  same  time  all 
the  fastidiousness  of  taste  and  imagination  which  lays  hold  of 
what  is  greatest  in  the  least,  and  best  in  all  things  ! 

Never  hurt  your  eyes  by  writing  ;  keep  them  wholly  for 
admiration  and  wonder.  I  hope  to  write  little  more  myself 
of  books,  and  to  join  with  you  in  joy  over  crystals  and  flowers 
in  the  way  we  used  to  do  when  we  were  both  more  children 
than  we  are. . 

I  have  been  rather  depressed  by  that  tragic  story  of  the 
codling.  I  hoped  the  thief  of  that  apple  has  suffered  more 
than  Eve,  and  fallen  farther  than  either  she  or  Adam. 

Joan  had  to  be  out  early  this  morning,  and  I  won’t  let  her 
write  more,  for  it’s  getting  dark  ;  but  she  thinks  of  you  and 
loves  you,  and  so  do  I,  every  day  more  and  more. 


TO  MISS  BEEVER. 

I  am  ashamed  not  to  have  sent  you  a  word  of  expression 
of  my  real  and  very  deep  feelings  of  regard  and  respect  for 
you,  and  of  my,  not  fervent  (in  the  usual  phrase,  which  means 
only  hasty  and  ebullient),  but  serenely  warm ,  hope  that  }rou 
may  keep  your  present  power  of  benevolent  happiness  to 
length  of  many  days  to  come.  But  I  hope  you  will  some¬ 
times  take  the  simpler  view  of  the  little  agate  box  than  that 
of  birthday  token,  and  that  you  will  wonder  sometimes  at  its 
labyrinth  of  mineral  vegetable  !  I  assure  you  there  is  noth¬ 
ing  in  all  my  collection  of  agates  in  its  way  quite  so  perfect 
as  the  little  fiery  forests  of  dotty  trees  in  the  corner  of  the 


68 


II  OUT  US  INCLUSUS, 


piece  which  forms  the  bottom.  I  ought  to  have  set  it  in 
silver,  but  was  always  afraid  to  trust  it  to  a  lapidary. 

What  you  say  of  the  Greek  want  of  violets  is  also  very 
interesting  to  me,  for  it  is  one  of  my  little  pet  discoveries 
that  Homer  means  the  blue  iris  by  the  word  translated 
“  violet.” 

I  am  utterly  sorry  not  to  come  to  see  you  and  Susie  before 
leaving  for  town,  but  can’t  face  this  bitter  day.  I  hope  and 
solemnly  propose  to  be  back  in  a  week. 


Thursday  morning. 

I’m  ever  so  much  better,  and  the  jackdaw  has  come.  But 
why  wasn’t  I  there  to  meet  his  pathetic  desire  for  art  knowl¬ 
edge  ?  To  think  of  that  poor  bird’s  genius  and  love  of  scar¬ 
let  ribbons,  shut  up  in  a  cage  !  What  it  might  have  come 
to! 

If  ever  my  St.  George’s  schools  come  to  any  perfection, 
they  shall  have  every  one  a  jackdaw  to  give  the  children  their 
first  lessons  in  arithmetic.  I’m  sure  he  could  do  it  perfectly. 
“  Now,  Jack,  take  two  from  four,  and  show  them  how  many 
are  left.”  “  Now,  Jack,  if  you  take  the  teaspoon  out  of  this 
saucer,  and  put  it  into  that ,  and  then  if  you  take  two  tea¬ 
spoons  out  of  two  saucers,  and  put  them  into  this,  and  then 
if  you  take  one  teaspoon  out  of  this  and  put  it  into  that, 
how  many  spoons  are  there  in  this,  and  how  many  in  that?  ” 
— and  so  on. 

Oh,  Susie,  when  w q  do  get  old,  you  and  I,  won’t  we  have 
nice  schools  for  the  birds  first,  and  then  for  the  children  ? 

That  photograph  is  indeed  like  a  visit  ;  how  thankful  I  am 
that  it  is  still  my  hope  to  get  the  real  visit  some  day ! 

I  was  yesterday,  and  am  always,  certainly  at  present,  very 
unwell,  and  a  mere  trouble  to  my  Joanies  and  Susies  and  all 
who  care  for  me.  But  I’m  painting  another  bit  of  moss 
which  I  think  Susie  will  enjoy,  and  hope  for  better  times. 

Did  you  see  the  white  cloud  that  stayed  quiet  for  three 
hours  this  morning  over  the  Old  Man’s  summit  ?  It  was  one 


E0RTU8  INCLUSUS. 


69 


of  tlie  few  remains  of  the  heaven  one  used  to  see.  The 
heaven  one  had  a  Father  in,  not  a  raging  enemy. 

I  send  you  Rogers’  “Italy,”  that  is  no  more.  I  do  think 
you'll  have  pleasure  in  it. 


I’ve  been  made  so  miserable  by  a  paper  of  Sir  J.  Lubbock’s 
on  flowers  and  insects,  that  I  must  come  and  whine  to  you.  He 
says,  and  really  as  if  he  knew  it,  that  insects,  chiefly  bees,  en¬ 
tirely  originate  flowers  ;  that  all  scent,  color,  pretty  form,  is 
owing  to  bees ;  that  flowers  which  insects  don’t  take  care  of, 
have  no  scent,  color,  nor  honey. 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  likelier  that  the  flowers  which 
have  no  scent,  color,  nor  honey,  don’t  get  any  attention  from 
the  bees. 

But  the  man  really  knows  so  much  about  it,  and  has  tried 
so  many  pretty  experiments,  that  he  makes  me  miserable. 

So  I’m  afraid  you’re  miserable  too.  Write  to  tell  me  about 
it  all. 

It  is  very  lovely  of  you  to  send  me  so  sweet  a  note  when  I 
have  not  been  near  you  since  the  tenth  century.  But  it  is 
all  I  can  do  to  get  my  men  and  my  moor  looked  after  ;  they 
have  both  the  instinct  of  doing  what  I  don’t  want,  the  mo¬ 
ment  my  back’s  turned  ;  and  then  there  has  not  been  light 
enough  to  know  a  hawk  from  a  hand-saw,  or  a  crow  from  a 
ptarmigan,  or  a  moor  from  a  meadow.  But  how  much  better 
your  eyes  must  be  when  you  can  write  such  lovely  notes  ! 

I  don’t  understand  how  the  strange  cat  came  to  love  you 
so  quickly,  after  one  dinner  and  a  rest  by  the  fire  !  I  should 
have  thought  an  ill-treated  and  outcast  animal  would  have  re¬ 
garded  everything  as  a  trap,  for  a  month  at  least — dined  in 
tremors,  warmed  itself  with  its  back  to  the  fire,  watching  the 
door,  and  jumped  up  the  chimney  if  you  stepped  on  the  rug. 

The  pheasant  had  come  from  Lachin-y-gair,  with  two 
others,  which  I’ve  been  eating  hot,  cold,  broiled,  and  dev¬ 
illed,  and  with  your  oysters  for  lunch.  Mattie,  Diddie,  and 
Joanie  have  fine  times  of  it  together,  they  say,  and  that  I 
ought  to  be  there  instead  of  here.  Do  you  think  so  ? 


70 


IIORTITS  INCLUSUS. 


If  you  only  knew  the  good  your  peacock’s  feathers  have 
done  me,  and  if  you  could  only  see  the  clever  drawing  I’m 
making,  of  one  from  the  blue  breast !  You  know  what  lovely 
little  fern  or  equisetum  stalks  of  sapphire  the  filaments  are  ; 
they  beat  me  so,  but  they’re  coming  nice. 

Joanie  says  she  thinks  you  are  not  well;  and  I’m  easily 
frightened  about  you,  because  you  never  take  any  care  of 
yourself,  and  will  not  do  what  Mary  or  Joan  or  I  bid  you, 
you  naughty  little  thing. 

You  won’t  even  submit  quietly  to  my  publishing  arrange¬ 
ments,  but  I’m  resolved  to  have  the  book  (“  Frondes  ”)  re¬ 
main  yours  altogether  ;  you  had  all  the  trouble  with  it,  and  it 
will  help  me  ever  so  much  more  than  I  could  myself. 


That  is  so  intensely  true  what  you  say  about  Turner’s  work 
being  like  nature’s  in  its  slowness  and  tenderness.  I  always 
think  of  him  as  a  great  natural  force  in  a  human  frame. 

So  nice  all  you  say  of  the  “  Ethics  !  ”  And  I’m  a  monster 
of  ingratitude,  as  bad  as  the  Dragon  of  Wantley.  Don’t  like 
Dr.  Brown’s  friend’s  book  at  all.  It’s  neither  Scotch  nor 
English,  nor  fish  nor  flesh,  and  it’s  tiresome. 

I’m  in  the  worst  humor  I’ve  been  in  this  month,  which  is 
saying  much  ;  and  have  been  writing  the  wickedest  “  Fors  ” 
I  ever  wrote,  which  is  saying  more  ;  you  will  be  so  angry. 


I’m  so  very  glad  you  will  mark  the  bits  you  like,  but  are 
there  not  a  good  many  here  and  there  that  you  don't  like  ? — 
I  mean  that  sound  hard  or  ironical.  Please  don’t  mind 
them.  They’re  partly  because  I  never  count  on  readers  who 
will  really  care  for  the  prettiest  things,  and  it  gets  me  into  a 
bad  habit  of  expressing  contempt  which  is  not  indeed  any 
natural  part  of  my  mind. 

It  pleases  me  especially  that  you  have  read  “  The  Queen  of 
the  Air.”  As  far  as  I  know,  myself,  of  my  books,  it  is  the 


n ORTHS  INCLUSUS. 


71 


most  useful  and  careful  piece  I  have  done.  But  that  again — 
did  it  not  shock  you  to  have  a  heathen  goddess  so  much  be¬ 
lieved  in?  (I’ve  believed  in  English  ones  long  ago.)  If  you 
can  really  forgive  me  for  “  The  Queen  of  the  Air,”  there  are 
all  sorts  of  things  I  shall  come  begging  you  to  read  some  day* 


21  st  July. 

I’m  always  looking  at  the  Thwaite,  and  thinking  how  nice 
it  is  that  you  are  there.  I  think  it’s  a  little  nice,  too,  that  7’m 
within  sight  of  you,  for  if  I  hadn’t  broken,  I  don’t  know  how 
many  not  exactly  promises,  but  nearly,  to  be  back  at  Oxford 
by  this  time,  I  might  have  been  dragged  from  Oxford  to 
London,  from  London  to  France,  from  France  who  knows 
where?  But  I’m  here,  and  settled  to  produce,  as  soon  as 
possible,  the  following  works — 

1.  New  number  of  “  Love’s  Meinie,”  on  the  Stormy  Petrel. 

2.  New  ditto  of  “  Proserpina,”  on  sap,  pith,  and  bark. 

3.  New  ditto  of  “Deucalion,”  on  clouds. 

4.  New  “Fors,”  on  new  varieties  of  young  ladies. 

6.  Two  new  numbers  of  “  Our  Fathers,”  on  Brunehaut,  and 
Bertha  her  niece,  and  St.  Augustine  and  St.  Benedict. 

6.  Index  and  epilogue  to  four  Oxford  lectures. 

7.  Report  and  account  of  St.  George’s  Guild. 

And  I’ve  had  to  turn  everything  out  of  every  shelf  in  the 
house,  for  mildew  and  moths. 

And  I  want  to  paint  a  little  bank  of  strawberry  leaves. 

And  I’ve  to  get  a  year’s  dead  sticks  out  of  the  wood,  and 
see  to  the  new  oat  field  on  the  moor,  and  prepare  lectures 
for  October ! 

I’m  so  idle.  I  look  at  the  hills  out  of  bed,  and  at  the  pic¬ 
tures  off  the  sofa.  Let  us  both  be  useless  beings  ;  let  us  be 
butterflies,  grasshoppers,  lambs,  larks,  anything  for  an  easy  life. 
I’m  quite  horrified  to  see,  now  that  these  two  have  come  back, 
what  a  lot  of  books  I’ve  written,  and  how  cruel  I’ve  been  to 
myself  and  everybody  else  who  ever  has  to  read  them.  I’m 
too  sleepy  to  finish  this  note. 


72 


UOllTUS  INCLUSUS. 


13 th  June . 

I  do  not  know  when  I  have  received,  or  how  I  could  receive, 
so  great  an  encouragement  in  all  my  work,  as  I  do  in  hearing 
that  you,  after  all  your  long  love  and  watchfulness  of  flowers, 
have  yet  gained  pleasure  and  insight  from  “Proserpina”  as 
to  leaf  structure.  The  examples  you  send  me  are  indeed  ad¬ 
mirable.  Can  you  tell  me  the  exact  name  of  the  plant,  that 
I  may  quote  it  ? 

Yes,  and  the  weather  also  is  a  great  blessing  to  me — so 
lovely  this  morning. 


I  have  been  simply  ashamed  to  write  without  being  able  to 
say  I  was  coming  ;  and  this  naughty  Joanie  has  put  us  all 
two  months  behindhand,  and  now  Brantwood  still  seems  as 
far  away  as  at  Florence.  (It  never  really  seems  far  away, 
anywhere.) 

But  you  will  like  to  know  that  I’m  very  well,  and  extremely 
good,  and  writing  beautiful  new  notes  to  “Modern  Painters,” 
and  getting  on  with  “Our  Fathers.”  And  what  lovely  ac¬ 
counts  I  have  of  “  Frondes  ”  from  Allen. 

I  really  think  that  one  book  has  made  all  our  business  lively. 

And  I’m  so  delighted  with  the  new  brooch — the  one  Mary 
gave  to  Joan.  I  never  saw  a  more  lovely  pearl  in  any  queen’s 
treasury,  nor  more  exquisite  setting.  Joan  and  I  have  no 
end  of  pleasure  in  playing  with  it,  and  I  vainly  try  to  summon 
philosophy  enough  to  convince  either  her  or  myself,  that  dew 
is  better  than  pearls,  and  moss  than  emeralds. 

I  think  my  days  of  philosophy  must  be  over.  I  certainly 
shall  not  have  enough  to  console  me,  if  I  don’t  get  to  Brant¬ 
wood  soon.  The  fog  here  is  perpetual,  and  I  can  only  see, 
and  just  that,  where  the  edgo  of  my  paper  is  leaving  me  still 
room  to  say  how  lovingly  and  faithfully  I  am 

Yours,  etc. 


You  won’t  refuse  to  give  house  room  or  even  parlor  room 
again  to  they?rs/  volume  of  your  “  Stones.”  It  has  your  name 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


73 


in  it,  and  feather  sketches,  which  I  like  the  memory  of  doing, 
and  I  found  another  in  my  stores  to  make  up  the  set.  I  have 
to-day,  regretfully,  but  in  proud  satisfaction,  sent  to  Mr. 
Brown’s  friend,  Miss  Lawley.  You  will  be  thinking  I’m  never 
going  to  write  any  new  books  more,  I’ve  promised  so  long  and 
done  nothing.  But  No.  2  and  No.  4,  of  “Amiens”  have 
been  going  on  at  once,  and  No.  3  and  No.  4  of  “  Love’s 
Meinie,”  and  No.  7  of  “  Proserpina  ”  had  to  be  done  in  the 
middle  of  all  four,  like  the  stamens  in  a  tormentilla.  And 
now  my  total  tormentilla  is  all  but  out.  But  “  all-but  ”  is  a 
long,  long  word  with  my  printers  and  me.  Still,  something 
has  been  done  every  day,  and  not  ill  done,  lately  ;  and  Joanie 
tells  me  your  friends  enjoyed  their  little  visit,  as  I  did  seeing 
them.  And  Joanie  is  well,  and  literally  as  busy  as  a  bee,  and 
sometimes  tumbles  down  at  last  on  the  sofa  just  at  bedtime, 
like  the  rather  bumbly  bees  in  the  grass  when  they’ve  been 
too  busy.  And  I’m  pretty  well,  and  asking  young  ladies  to 
come  and  see  me. 


I’m  getting  steadily  better,  and  breathing  the  sunshine  a 
little  again  in  soul  and  lips.  But  I  always  feel  so  naughty 
after  having  had  morning  prayers,  and  that  the  whole  house 
is  a  sort  of  little  Bethel  that  I’ve  no  business  in. 

I’m  reading  history  of  early  saints  too,  for  my  Amiens 
book,  and  feel  that  I  ought  to  be  scratched,  or  starved,  or 
boiled,  or  something  unpleasant,  and  I  don’t  know  if  I’m  a 
saint  or  a  sinner  in  the  least,  in  mediaeval  language.  How  did 
saints  feel  themselves,  I  wonder,  about  their  saintship ! 


It  is  such  a  joy  to  hear  that  you  enjoy  anything  of  mine,  and 
a  double  joy  to  have  your  sympathy  in  my  love  of  those  It¬ 
alians.  How  I  wish  there  were  more  like  you  !  What  a 
happy  world  it  would  be  if  a  quarter  of  the  people  in  it 
cared  a  quarter  as  much  as  you  and  I  do,  for  what  is  good  and 
true  ! 


u 


11012 T US  IXULUSUS. 


That  Nativity  is  the  deepest  of  all.  It  is  by  the  master  of 
Botticelli,  you  know  ;  and  whatever  is  most  sweet  and  tender 
in  Botticelli  he  owes  to  Lippi. 

But,  do  you  know,  I  quite  forget  about  Cordelia,  and  where 
I  said  it  !  please  keep  it  till  I  come.  I  hope  to  be  across  to 
see  you  to-morrow. 

They’ve  been  doing  photographs  of  me  again,  and  I’m  an 
orang-outang  as  usual,  and  am  in  despair.  I  thought  with 
my  beard  I  was  beginning  to  be  just  the  least  bit  nice  to  look 
at.  I  would  give  up  half  my  books  for  a  new  profile. 

What  a  lovely  day  since  twelve  o’clock  !  I  never  saw  the 
lake  shore  more  heavenly. 

I  am  very  thankful  that  you  like  this  St.  Mark’s  so  much, 
and  do  not  feel  as  if  I  had  lost  power  of  mind.  I  think  the 
illness  has  told  on  me  more  in  laziness  than  foolishness.  I 
feel  as  if  there  was  as  much  in  me  as  ever,  but  it  is  too  much 
trouble  to  say  it.  And  I  find  myself  reconciled  to  staying  in 
bed  of  a  morning  to  a  quite  wof'ul  extent.  I  have  not  been 
affected  so  much  by  melancholy,  being  very  thankful  to  be  still 
alive,  and  to  be  able  to  give  pleasure  to  some  people — foolish 
little  Joanies  and  Susies,  and  so  on. 

You  have  greatly  helped  me  by  this  dear  little  note.  And 
the  bread’s  all  right,  brown  again,  and  I’m  read}r  for  asparagus 
of  any  stoutness,  there  !  Are  you  content  ?  But  my  new  as¬ 
paragus  is  quite  visible  this  year,  though  how  much  would  be 
■wanted  for  a  dish  I  don’t  venture  to  count,  but  must  be  con¬ 
gratulated  on  its  definitely  stalky  appearance. 

I  was  over  the  water  this  morning  on  school  committee. 
How  bad  I  have  been  to  let  those  poor  children  be  torment¬ 
ed  as  they  are  all  this  time  !  I’m  going  to  try  and  stop  all  the 
spelling  and  counting  and  catechising,  and  teach  them  only — 
to  watch  and  pray. 

The  oranges  make  me  think  I’m  in  a  castle  in  Spain  ! 

Your  letters  always  warm  me  a  little,  not  with  laughing, 
but  with  the  soft  glow  of  life,  for  I  live  mostly  with  “la  mort 
dans  l’ame.”  (It  is  curious  that  the  French,  whom  one  thinks 
of  as  slight  and  frivolous,  have  this  true  and  deep  expression 
for  the  forms  of  sorrow  that  kill,  as  opposed  to  those  that 


UORTUS  INCLtFSTTS.  75 

discipline  and  strengthen.)  And  your  words  and  thought  just 
soften  and  warm  like  west  wind. 

It  is  nice  being  able  to  please  you  with  what  I’m  writing, 
and  that  you  can  tell  people  I’m  not  so  horrid. 

Here’s  the  “  Fors  ”  you  saw  the  proof  of,  but  this  isn’t  quite 
right  yet. 

The  Willy  *  quotations  are  very  delightful.  Do  you  know 
that  naughty  “Cowley”  at  all?  There’s  all  kind  of  honey 
and  strawberries  in  him. 

It  is  bitter  cold  here  these  last  days.  I  don’t  stir  out,  but 
must  this  afternoon.  I’ve  to  go  out  to  dinner  and  work  at 
the  Arundel  Society.  And  if  you  only  knew  what  was  in  my 
thoughts  you  would  be  so  sorry  for  me,  that  I  can’t  tell  you. 


Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford. 

What  a  sad  little  letter !  written  in  that  returned  darkness. 

How  can  you  ever  be  sad,  looking  forward  to  eternal  life 
with  all  whom  you  love,  and  God  over  all. 

It  is  only  so  far  as  I  lose  hold  of  that  hope,  that  anything 
is  ever  a  trial  to  me.  But  I  can’t  think  how  I’m  to  get  on  in 
a  world  with  no  Venice  in  it. 

You  were  quite  right  in  thinking  I  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  lawyers.  Not  one  of  them  shall  ever  have  so  much 
as  a  crooked  sixpence  of  mine,  to  save  him  from  being  hanged, 
or  to  save  the  Lakes  from  being  filled  up.  But  I  really  hope 
there  may  be  feeling  enough  in  Parliament  to  do  a  right 
thiug  without  being  deafened  with  lawyers’  slang. 

I  have  never  thanked  you  for  the  snowdrops.  They 

bloomed  here  beautifully  for  four  days.  Then  I  had  to  leave 

•/  • 

them  to  go  and  lecture  in  London.  It  was  nice  to  see  them, 
but  my  whole  mind  is  set  on  finding  whether  there  is  a 
country  where  the  flowers  do  not  fade.  Fflse  there  is  no 
spring  for  me.  People  liked  the  lecture,  and  so  many  more 
wanted  to  come  than  could  get  in,  that  I  had  to  promise  to 
give  another. 


*  Shakespeare. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


70 

Here’s  your  little  note,  first  of  all.  And  if  you  only  knew 
liow  my  wristbands  are  plaguing  me  you’d  be  very  sorry. 
They’re  too  much  starched,  and  would  come  down  like  mit¬ 
tens;  and  now  I’ve  turned  them  up,  they’re  just  like  two  hor¬ 
rid  china  cups  upside  down,  inside  my  coat,  and  I’m  afraid 
to  write  for  fear  of  breaking  them.  And  I’ve  a  week’s  work 
on  the  table,  to  be  done  before  one  o’clock,  on  pain  of  uproar 
from  my  friends,  execution  from  my  enemies,  reproach  from 
my  lovers,  triumph  from  my  haters,  despair  of  Joanie,  and — 
what  from  Susie  ?  I’ve  had  such  a  bad  night,  too  ;  woke  at 
half-past  three  and  have  done  a  day’s  work  since  then — com¬ 
posing  my  lecture  for  March,  and  thinking  what’s  to  become 
of  a  godson  of  mine  whose — 

Well,  never  mind.  I  needn’t  give  you  the  trouble,  poor 
little  Susie,  of  thinking  too.  I  wonder  if  that  jackdaw  story 
will  come  to-day. 

This  must  be  folded  up  and  directed  all  right  at  once,  or 
I’m  sure  it  will  never  go.  Love  to  Mary,  very  much,  please, 
and  three  times  over  ;  I  missed  these  two  last  times. 

I’m  going  to  Oxford  to-day  (D.V.),  really  quite  well,  and 
rather  merry.  I  went  to  the  circus  with  my  new  pet,  and 
saw  lovely  riding  and  ball  play  ;  and  my  pet  said  the  only 
drawback  to  it  all,  was  that  she  couldn’t  sit  on  both  sides  of 
me.  And  then  I  went  home  to  tea  with  her,  and  gave 
mamma,  wrho  is  Evangelical,  a  beautiful  lecture  on  the  piety 
of  dramatic  entertainments,  wrhich  made  her  laugh,  whether 
she  would  or  no  ;  and  then  I  had  my  Christmas  dinner  in 
advance  with  Joanie  and  Arfie  and  Stacy  Marks,  and  his  wife 
and  two  pretty  daughters,  and  I  had  six  kisses — two  for 
Christmas,  two  for  New  Year’s  Day,  and  two  for  Twelfth 
Night — and  everybody  was  in  the  best  humor  with  everybody 
else.  And  now  my  room  is  ankle  deep  in  unanswered  letters, 
mostly  on  business,  and  I’m  going  to  shovel  them  up  and  tie 
them  in  a  parcel  labelled  “Needing  particular  attention;” 
and  then  that  will  be  put  into  a  cupboard  in  Oxford,  and  I 
shall  feel  that  everything’s  been  done  in  a  business-like  way. 

That  badger’s  beautiful.  I  don’t  think  there’s  any  need 
for  such  beasts  as  that  to  turn  Christians. 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


77 


I  am  indeed  most  thankful  you  are  well  again,  though 
I  never  looked  on  that  deafness  very  seriously  ;  but  if  you 
like  hearing  watches  tick,  and  boots  creak,  and  plates  clatter, 
so  be  it  to  you,  for  many  and  many  a  year  to  come.  I  think 
I  should  so  like  to  be  deaf,  mostly,  not  expected  to  answer 
anybody  in  society,  never  startled  by  a  bang,  never  tortured 
by  a  railroad  whistle,  never  hearing  the  nasty  cicads  in  Italy’, 
nor  a  child  cry,  nor  an  owl.  Nothing  but  a  nice  whisper  into 
my  ear,  by  a  pretty  girl.  Ah,  well,  I’m  very  glad  I  can  chat¬ 
ter  to  you  with  my  weak  voice,  to  my  heart’s  content ;  and 
you  must  come  and  see  me  soon,  now.  All  that  you  say  of 
“  Proserpina  ”  is  joyful  to  me.  What  a  Susie  you  are,  draw¬ 
ing  like  that !  and  I'm  sure  you  know  Latin  better  than  I  do. 


I  am  better,  but  not  right  yet.  There  is  no  fear  of  sore 
throat,  I  think,  but  some  of  prolonged  tooth  worry.  It  is 
more  stomachic  than  coldic,  I  believe,  and  those  tea-cakes  aro 
too  crisply  seductive.  What  can  it  be,  that  subtle  treachery 
that  lurks  in  tea-cakes,  and  is  wholly  absent  in  the  rude 
honesty  of  toast  ? 

The  metaphysical  effect  of  tea-cake  last  night  was,  that  I 
had  a  perilous  and  weary  journey  in  a  desert,  in  which  I  had 
to  dodge  hostile  tribes  round  the  corners  of  pyramids. 

A  very  sad  letter  from  Joanie  tells  me  she  was  going  to  Scot¬ 
land  last  night,  at  which  I  am  not  only  very  sorry,  but  very  cross. 

A  chirping  cricket  on  the  hearth  advises  me  to  keep  my 
heart  up.  Foolish  hedgehog,  not  to  come  for  that  egg.  Don’t 
let  Abigail  be  cast  down  about  her  tea-cakes.  An  “  honest  ” 
egg  is  just  as  destructive  of  my  peace  of  mind. 


Your  happy  letters  (with  the  sympathetic  misery  of  com¬ 
plaint  of  dark  days)  have  cheered  me  as  much  as  anything 
could  do. 

The  sight  of  one  of  my  poor  “  Companions  of  St.  George,” 
wTho  has  sent  me,  not  a  widow’s  but  a  parlor-maid’s  (an  old 
schoolmistress)  “  all  her  living,”  and  whom  I  found  last 


T8 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


night,  dying,  slowly  and  quietly,  in  a  damp  room,  just  the  size 
of  your  study  (which  her  landlord  won’t  mend  the  roof  of), 
by  the  light  of  a  single  tallow  candle — dying,  I  say,  slovoly ,  of 
consumption,  not  yet  near  the  end,  but  contemplating  it  with 
sorrow,  mixed  partty  with  fear,  lest  she  should  not  have  done 
all  she  could  for  her  children  ! 

The  sight  of  all  this  and  my  own  shameful  comforts,  three 
wax  candles  and  blazing  fire  and  dry  roof,  and  Susie  and 
Joanie  for  friends  ! 

Oh,  me,  Susie,  what  is  to  become  of  me  in  the  next  world, 
who  have  in  this  life  all  my  good  things ! 


What  a  sweet,  careful,  tender  letter  this  is  1  I  re-enclose  it 
at  once  for  fear  of  mischief,  though  I’ve  scarcely  read,  for  in¬ 
deed  my  eyes  are  weary,  but  I  see  what  gentle  mind  it  means. 

Yes,  you  will  love  and  rejoice  in  your  Chaucer  more  and 
more.  Fancy,  I’ve  never  time,  now,  to  look  at  him — obliged 
to  read  even  my  Homer  and  Shakespeare  at  a  scramble,  half 
missing  the  sense — the  business  of  life  disturbs  one  so. 


Will  you  please  thank  Miss  Watson  for  the  “  Queen’s 
Wake.”  I  should  like  to  tell  her  about  Hogg’s  visit  to  Herne 
Hill,  and  my  dog  Dash’s  reception  of  him  ;  but  I’m  never 
pleased  with  the  Shepherd’s  bearing  to  Sir  W.  Scott,  as  one 
reads  it  in  “Lockhart.” 

There’s  no  fear  of  Susie’s  notes  ever  being  less  bright  as 
long  as  she  remains  a  child,  and  it’s  a  long  while  yet  to  look 
forward  to. 

I  had  such  a  nice  dinner  all  alone  with  Joanie,  yesterday, 
and  Sarah  waiting.  Joanie  coughed  and  startled  me.  I  ac¬ 
cused  her  of  having  a  cold.  To  defend  herself  she  siiid 
(the  mockery),  Perhaps  she  oughtn’t  to  kiss  me.  I  said, 
“Couldn’t  Sarah  *  try  first,  and  see  if  any  harm  comes  of 

*  Our  Herne  Hill  parlor-maid  for  four  years.  One  of  quite  the 
brightest  and  handsomest  types  of  English  beauty  I  ever  saw,  either  in 
life,  or  fancied  in  painting. 


HORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


79 


it?”  (Sarah  highly  amused.)  For  goodness’ sake  don’t  tell 
Kate. 

I’ve  only  a  crushed  bit  of  paper  to  express  my  crushed  heart 
upon.  It’s  the  best ! 

That  you  should  be  thinking,  designing,  undermining,  as 
Mrs.  Somebody  says  in  that  disgusting  “Mill  on  the  Floss,” 
to  send  to  London  for  port.  And  my  port  getting  crusty, 
dusty,  cobwebby,  and  generally  like  its  master,  just  because 
it’s  no  use  to  nobody.  I  don’t  drink  it  ;  Joan  don’t ;  Arfie’s 
always  stuck  up  with  his  claret  and  French  vinegaret  things 
(gave  him  all  his  rheumatism,  I  say);  and  now  here’s  my 
Susie  sending  to  London,  and  passing  me  by  and  my  sorrow¬ 
ful  bin.  I  didn’t  think  she'd  have  bin  and  done  it.  Even 
the  Alpine  plants  of  which  I  hear,  as  darlings,  don’t  at  pres¬ 
ent  console  me. 

Just  you  try  such  a  trick  again,  that’s  all  I 


Herne  Hill. 

Here’s  your  letter  first  thing  in  the  morning,  while  I’m 
sipping  my  coffee  in  the  midst  of  such  confusion  as  I’ve  not 

T  6 


often  achieved  at  my  best.  The  little  room,  which  I  think  is 
as  nearly  as  possible  the  size  of  your  study,  but  with  a  lower 
roof,  has  to  begin  with — A,  my  bed  ;  B,  my  basin  stand  ;  C, 
my  table  ;  D,  my  chest  of  drawers  ;  thus  arranged  in  relation 
to  E,  the  window  (which  has  still  its  dark  bars  to  prevent 
the  little  boy  getting  out);  F,  the  fireplace;  G,  the  golden 


80 


HORTUS  INOLUSUS. 


or  mineralogical  cupboard ;  aud  H,  the  grand  entrance. 
The  two  dots  with  a  back  represent  my  chair,  which  is  prop¬ 
erly  solid  and  not  wn-easy.  Three  others  of  lighter  disposi- 
sion  find  place  somewhere  about.  These,  with  the  chimney- 
piece  and  drawer’s  head,  are  covered,  or  rather  heaped,  with 
all  they  can  carry,  and  the  morning  is  just  looking  in,  aston¬ 
ished  to  see  what  is  expected  of  it,  and  smiling — (yes,  I  may 
fairly  say  it  is  smiling,  for  it  is  cloudless  for  its  part  above 
the  smoke  of  the  horizon  line) — at  Sarah’s  hope  and  mine,  of 
ever  getting  that  room  into  order  by  twelve  o’clock.  The 
chimney-piece  with  its  bottles,  spoons,  lozenge  boxes,  matches, 
candlesticks,  and  letters  jammed  behind  them,  does  appear 
to  me  entirely  hopeless,  and  this  the  more  because  Sarah, 
when  I  tell  her  to  take  a  bottle  away  that  has  a  mixture  in  it 
which  I  don’t  like,  looks  me  full  in  the  face,  and  says  “  she 
won’t,  because  I  may  want  it.”  I  submit,  because  it  is  so  nice 
to  get  Sarah  to  look  one  full  in  the  face.  She  really  is  the 
prettiest,  round-faced,  and  round-eyed  girl  I  ever  saw,  and 
it’s  a  great  shame  she  should  be  a  housemaid  ;  only  I  wfish 
she  would  take  those  bottles  away.  She  says  I’m  looking 
better  to-day,  and  I  think  I’m  feeling  a  little  bit  more — no,  I 
mean,  a  little  bit  less — demoniacal.  But  I  still  can  do  that 
jackdaw  beautifully. 


I  am  quite  sure  you  would  have  felt  like  Albert  Diirer,  had 
you  gone  on  painting  wrens. 

The  way  Nature  and  Heaven  waste  the  gifts  and  souls  they 
give  and  make,  passes  all  wonder.  You  might  have  done 
anything  you  chose,  only  you  were  too  modest. 

No,  I  never  will  call  you  my  dear  lady  ;  certainly,  if  it 
comes  to  that,  something  too  dreadful  will  follow. 


That  is  so  very  nice,  isn’t  it,  about  the  poor  invalid  and 
“  Frondes.”  It  is  terrible  that  doctors  should  say  such  things, 
but  on  the  whole,  when  they  feel  them  strongly  they  should 


II011TUS  INCLUSUS. 


81 


speak,  else  it  would  be  impossible  for  them  to  give  trust¬ 
worthy  comfort  and  healing  hope. 

I  wish  that  peacock  of  yours  would  teach  me  to  brush  my 
hair  before  I  come  to  dinner,  for  I  am,  though 

Ever  your  loving 

J.  R., 

not  fit  to  be  seen  lately,  with  fighting  midges  in  my  hair. 

I  am  most  interested  in  your  criticism  of  “  Queen  Mary.” 
I  have  not  read  it,  but  the  choice  of  subject  is  entirely  morbid 
and  wrong,  and  I  am  sure  all  you  say  must  be  true.  The 
form  of  decline  which  always  comes  on  mental  power  of 
Tennyson’s  passionately  sensual  character,  is  always  of  seeing 
ugly  things,  a  kind  of  delirium  tremens.  Turner  had  it  fa¬ 
tally  in  his  last  years. 

I  am  so  glad  you  enjoy  writing  to  me  more  than  anyone  else. 
The  book  you  sent  me  of  Dr.  John  Brown’s  on  books,  has 
been  of  extreme  utility  to  me,  and  contains  matter  of  the  deep¬ 
est  interest.  Did  you  read  it  yourself?  If  not,  I  must  lend  it 
to  you. 

I  am  so  glad  also  to  know  of  your  happiness  in  Chaucer. 
Don’t  hurry  in  reading.  I  will  get  you  an  edition  for  your 
own,  that  you  may  mark  it  in  peace. 


I  send  you  two  books,  neither  I  fear  very  amusing,  but  on 
my  word,  I  think  books  are  always  dull  when  one  really  most 
wants  them.  No,  other  people  don’t  feel  it  as  you  and  I  do, 
nor  do  the  dogs  and  ponies,  but  oughtn’t  we  to  be  thankful 
that  we  do  feel  it.  The  thing  I  fancy  we  are  both  wanting  in, 
is  a  right  power  of  enjoying  the  past.  What  sunshine  there 
has  been  even  in  this  sad  year  !  I  have  seen  beauty  enough 
in  one  afternoon,  not  a  fortnight  ago,  to  last  me  for  a  year  if 
I  could  rejoice  in  memory. 

But  I  believe  things  are  a  little  better  at  Seascale.  Arties’ 
gone  off  there,  but  I  have  a  painter  friend,  Mr.  Goodwin,  com¬ 
ing  to  keep  me  company,  and  I’m  a  little  content  in  this  worst 
of  rainy  days,  in  hopes  there  may  be  now  some  clearing  for  him. 

Our  little  kittens  pass  the  days  of  their  youth  up  against 


82 


HORTUS  INQLUma. 


the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  house,  where  the  heat  of  the  oven 
comes  through.  What  an  existence  !  and  yet  with  all  my  in¬ 
door  advantages 

I  am  your  sorrowful  and  repining 

J.  It. 


I  am  entirely  grateful  for  your  letter,  and  for  all  the  sweet 
feelings  expressed  in  it,  and  am  entirely  reverent  of  the  sor¬ 
row  which  you  feel  at  my  speaking  thus.  If  only  all  were  like 
you.  But  the  chief  sins  and  evils  of  the  day  are  caused  by  the 
Pharisees,  exactly  as  in  the  time  of  Christ,  and  “they  make 
broad  their  phylacteries  ”  in  the  same  way,  the  Bible  supersti- 
tiously  read,  becoming  the  authority  for  every  error  and  heresy 
and  cruelty.  To  make  its  readers  understand  that  the  God  of 
their  own  day  is  as  living,  and  as  able  to  speak  to  them 
directly  as  ever  in  the  days  of  Isaiah  and  St.  John,  and  that 
He  would  now  send  messages  to  His  Seven  Churches,  if  the 
Churches  would  hear,  needs  stronger  words  than  any  I  have 
yet  dared  to  use,  against  the  idolatry  of  the  historical  record 
of  His  messages  long  ago,  perverted  by  men’s  forgetfulness, 
and  confused  by  mischance  and  misapprehension  ;  and  if  in¬ 
stead  of  the  Latin  form  “  Scripture  ”  we  put  always  “writing” 
instead  of  “  written  ”or  “  write  ”  in  one  place,  and  “  Script¬ 
ure,”  as  if  it  meant  our  English  Bible,  in  another,  it  would 
make  such  a  difference  to  our  natural  and  easy  understanding 
the  range  of  texts. 

The  peacock’s  feathers  are  marvellous.  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  them.  I  never  had  any  of  their  downy  ones  before. 
My  compliments  to  the  bird,  upon  them,  please. 

I  have  had  a  tiring  forenoon  in  the  house  with  dark  air, 
and  must  go  out ;  and  poor  Susie  will  not  only  scarce  find  a 
turned  leaf,  but  an  empty  line  in  the  unturned  one. 

But  children  always  like  to  have  letters  about  anything. 

I  found  a  strawberry  growing  just  to  please  itself,  as  red  as 
a  ruby,  high  up  on  Yewdale  crag  yesterday,  in  a  little  corner 
of  rock  all  its  own  ;  so  I  left  it  to  enjoy  itself.  It  seemed  as 
happy  as  a  lamb,  and  no  more  meant  to  be  eaten. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


83 


Yes,  those  are  all  sweetest  bits  from  Chaucer  (the  pine  new 
to  me) ;  your  own  copy  is  being  bound.  And  all  the  Rich¬ 
ard— but  you  must  not  copy  out  the  Richard  bits,  for  I  like 
all  my  Richard  alike  from  beginning  to  end.  Yes,  my  “  seed 
pearl  ”  bit  is  pretty,  I  admit  ;  it  was  like  the  thing.  The 
cascades  here,  I’m  afraid,  come  down  more  like  seed  oatmeal. 


Now  it’s  very  naughty  of  you,  Susie,  to  think  everybody 
else  would  have  ate  that  strawberry.  Mr.  Severn  and  Mr. 
Patmore  were  both  with  me  ;  and  when  I  said,  “Now,  I  don’t 
believe  three  other  people  could  be  found  who  would  let  that 
alone,”  Mr.  Patmore  was  quite  shocked,  and  said,  “I’m  quite 
sure  nobody  but  you  would  have  thought  of  eating  it !  ” 

Ever  your  loving,  gormandising  (Patmore  knows  me !) 

J.  R. 


Actually  I’ve  never  thanked  you  for  that  exquisite  cheese. 
The  mere  look  of  it  puts  one  in  heart  like  a  fresh  field.  I 
never  tasted  anything  so  perfect  in  its  purity  of  cream  nature. 
The  Chaucer  bits,  next  to  the  cheese,  are  delicious,  too. 

About  the  railroad  circular,  I  knew  and  know  nothing  but 
that  I  signed  my  name.  They  may  have  printed  said  circular 
perhaps. 

At  all  events,  most  thankful  should  I  be  to  anyone  who 
would  help  in  such  cause.  I’m  at  work  on  a  piece  of  moss 
again,  far  better,  I  hope  likely  to  be,  than  the  one  you  saw. 


I  believe  in  my  hasty  answer  to  your  first  kind  letter  I 
never  noticed  what  you  said  about  Aristophanes.  If  you  will 
indeed  send  me  some  notes  of  the  passages  that  interest  you 
in  the  “Birds,”  it  will  not  only  be  very  pleasant  to  me,  but 
quite  seriously  useful,  for  the  “  Birds  ”  have  always  been  to 
me  so  mysterious  in  that  comedy,  that  I  have  never  got  the 
good  of  it  which  I  know  is  to  be  had.  The  careful  study  of 


84 


UORTUS  INCLUSUS . 


it,  put  off  from  day  to  day,  was  likely  enough  to  fall  into  the 
great  region  of  my  despair,  unless  you  had  chanced  thus  to 
remind  me  of  it. 

Please,  if  another  chance  of  good  to  me  come  in  your  way, 
in  another  brown  spotty-purple  peacock’s  feather,  will  you  yet 
send  it  to  me,  and  I  will  be  always  your  most  grateful  and 
faithful  J.  R. 


Herne  Hill. 

It  is  so  very  sweet  and  good  of  you  to  write  such  lovely 
play  letters  to  Joanie  and  me  ;  they  delight  and  comfort  us 
more  than  I  can  tell  you. 

What  translation  of  Aristophanes  is  that  ?  I  must  get  it. 
I’ve  lost  I  can’t  tell  you  how  much  knowledge  and  power 
through  false  pride  in  refusing  to  read  translations,  though  I 
couldn’t  read  the  original  without  more  trouble  and  time  than 
I  could  spare  ;  nevertheless,  you  must  not  think  this  Eng¬ 
lish  gives  you  a  true  idea  of  the  original.  The  English  is 
much  more  “  English  ”  in  its  temper  than  its  words.  Aris¬ 
tophanes  is  far  more  dry,  severe,  and  concentrated  ;  his  words 
are  fewer,  and  have  fuller  flavor ;  this  English  is  to  him 
what  currant  jelly  is  to  currants.  But  it’s  immensely  useful  to 
me.  Yes,  that  is  very  sweet  about  the  kissing.  I  have  done 
it  to  rocks  often,  seldom  to  flowers,  not  being  sure  that 
they  would  like  it. 

I  recollect  giving  a  very  reverent  little  kiss  to  a  young  sap¬ 
ling  that  was  behaving  beautifully  in  an  awkward  chink,  be¬ 
tween  two  great  big  ones  that  were  ill-treating  it.  Poor  me 
(I’m  old  enough,  I  hope,  to  write  grammar  my  own,  way),  my 
own  little  self,  meantime,  never  by  any  chance  got  a  kiss 
when  I  wanted  it — and  the  better  I  behaved,  the  less  chance 
I  had,  it  seemed. 


I  never  thought  the  large  packet  was  from  you  ;  it  was 
thrown  aside  with  the  rest  till  evening,  and  only  opened  then 
by  chance.  I  was  greatly  grieved  to  find  what  I  had  thus  left 
unacknowledged.  The  drawings  are  entirely  beautiful  and 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


85 


wonderful, but,  like  all  the  good  work  done  in  those  bygone  days 
(Donovan’s  own  book  being  of  inestimable  excellence  in  this 
kind),  they  affect  me  with  profound  melancholy  in  the  thought 
of  the  loss  to  the  entire  body  of  the  nation  of  all  this  perfect 
artistic  capacity,  and  sweet  will,  for  want  of  acknowledgment, 
system,  and  direction.  I  must  write  a  careful  passage  on  this 
matter  in  my  new  Elements  of  Drawing.  Your  drawings 
have  been  sent  me  not  by  you,  but  by  my  mistress  Fors,  for  a 
text.  It  is  no  wonder,  when  you  can  draw  like  this,  that  you 
care  so  much  for  all  lovely  nature.  But  I  shall  be  ashamed  to 
show  you  my  peacock’s  feather  ;  I’ve  sent  it,  however. 

What  a  naughty  child  you  are  to  pick  out  all  that  was  use¬ 
less  and  leave  all  that’s  practical  and  useful  for  “  Frondes  !  ” 
You  ought  to  have  pounced  on  all  the  best  bits  on  drawing 
from  nature ! 


It  is  very  sweet  of  you  to  give  me  your  book,  but  I  accept 
it  at  once  most  thankfully.  It  is  the  best  type  I  can  show  of 
the  perfect  work  of  an  English  lady  in  her  own  simple  peace 
of  enjoyment  and  natural  gift  of  truth,  in  her  sight  and  in 
her  mind.  And  many  pretty  things  are  in  my  mind  and  heart 
about  it,  if  my  hands  were  not  too  cold  to  shape  words  for 
them.  The  book  shall  be  kept  with  my  Bewicks  ;  it  is  in  no¬ 
wise  inferior  to  them  in  fineness  of  work.  The  finished  proof 
of  next  “  Proserpina  ”  will,  I  think,  be  sent  me  by  Saturday’s 
post.  Much  more  is  done,  but  this  number  was  hindered  by 
the  revisal  of  the  Dean  of  Christ  Church,  which  puts  me  at 
rest  about  mistakes  in  my  Greek. 


It  is  a  great  joy  to  me  that  you  like  the  Wordsworth  bits  ; 
there  are  worse  coming  (unless  Diddie,  perhaps,  begs  them 
off)  ;  but  I’ve  been  put  into  a  dreadful  passion  by  two  of  my 
cleverest  girl  pupils  “going  off  pious!”  It’s  exactly  like  a 
nice  pear  getting  “  sleepy ;  ”  and  I’m  pretty  nearly  in  the 
worst  temper  I  can  be  in,  for  W.  W.  But  what  are  these 
blessed  feathers  ?  Everything  that's  best  of  grass  and  clouds 


86 


IIORTUS  INGLUSUS. 


and  chrysoprase.  What  incomparable  little  creature  wears 
such  things,  or  lets  fall  ?  The  “  fringe  of  flame  ”  is  Carlyle’s, 
not  mine,  but  we  feel  so  much  alike,  that  you  may  often  mis¬ 
take  one  for  the  other  now. 

You  cannot  in  the  least  tell  what  a  help  you  are  to  me,  in 
caring  so  much  for  my  things  and  seeing  what  I  try  to  do  in 
them.  You  are  quite  one  of  a  thousand  for  sympathy  with 
everybody,  and  one  of  the  ten  times  ten  thousand,  for  special 
sympathy  with  my  own  feelings  and  tries.  Yes,  that  second 
column  is  rather  nicely  touched,  though  I  say  it,  for  hands 
and  eyes  of  sixty-two  ;  but  when  once  the  wind  stops  I  hope 
to  do  a  bit  of  primrosey  ground  that  will  be  richer. 


Here,  not  I,  but  a  thing  with  a  dozen  of  colds  in  its  head, 
am ! 

I  caught  one  cold  on  Wednesday  last,  another  on  Thursday, 
two  on  Friday,  four  on  Saturday,  and  one  at  every  station 
between  this  and  Ingleborough  on  Monday.  I  never  was  in 
such  ignoble  misery  of  cold.  I’ve  no  cough  to  speak  of,  nor 
anything  worse  than  usual  in  the  way  of  sneezing,  but  my 
hands  are  cold,  my  pulse  nowhere,  my  nose  tickles  and  wrings 
me,  my  ears  sing — like  kettles,  my  mouth  has  no  taste,  my 
heart  no  hope  of  ever  being  good  for  anything,  any  more.  I 
never  passed  such  a  wretched  morning  by  my  own  fireside  in 
all  my  days,  and  I’ve  quite  a  fiendish  pleasure  in  telling  you 
all  this,  and  thinking  how  miserable  you’ll  be  too.  Oh,  me, 
if  I  ever  get  to  feel  like  myself  again,  won’t  I  take  care  of 
myself. 


Seven  of  the  eleven  colds  are  better,  but  the  other  four  are 
worse,  and  they  were  the  worst  before,  and  I’m  such  a  wreck 
and  rag  and  lump  of  dust  being  made  mud  of,  that  I’m 
ashamed  to  let  the  maids  bring  me  my  dinner. 

Your  contemptible,  miserable,  beyond  pitiable,  past  deplor¬ 
able  J.  R. 


II Oli TJJS  INGLUSUS. 


87 


The  little  book  is  very  lovely,  all  of  it  that  is  your  own. 
The  religion  of  it  you  know  is,  anybody's,  what  my  poor 
little  Susie  was  told  when  she  was  a  year  or  two  younger  than 
she  is  now. 

What  we  should  all  try  to  do,  is  to  find  out  something 
certain  about  God,  for  ourselves. 


The  feathers  nearly  made  me  fly  away  from  all  my  Psalters 
and  Exoduses,  to  you,  and  my  dear  peacocks.  I  wonder, 
when  Solomon  got  his  ivory  and  apes  and  peacocks,  whether 
he  ever  had  time  to  look  at  them.  He  couldn’t  always  be 
ordering  children  to  be  chopped  in  two.  Alas,  I  suppose  his 
wisdom,  in  England  of  to-day,  would  have  been  taxed  to  find 
out  which  mother  lied  in  saying  which  child  wasn't  hers ! 

But  you  will  like  my  psalter,  I’m  sure.  Diddie  wouldn’t 
copy  the  wickedest  bits,  so  I  was  obliged  to  leave  them  out ! 

Oh,  dear,  I  feel  so  wicked  to-day,  I  could  even  tease  you , 
by  telling  you  Joanie  was  better,  and  how  it  came  to  pass.  I 
mustn’t  say  more,  but  that  I  love  you  ever  so  much,  and  am 
ever,  etc. 

I  began  this  note  especially  to  tell  you  how  delighted  I  was 
with  your  idea  of  the  flower  show  ;  how  good  it  will  be  for 
the  people,  and  how  nice  for  you  ! 

I’ve  been  writing  to  Miss  R  again,  and  Miss  L.’s  quite  right 
to  stay  at  home.  “  She  thinks  I  have  an  eagle’s  eye.”  Well, 
what  else  should  I  have,  in  day  time  ?  together  with  my 
cat’s  eye  in  the  dark  ?  But  you  may  tell  her  I  should  be 
very  sorry  if  my  eyes  were  710  better  than  eagles’  !  “Doth 
the  eagle  know  what  is  in  the  pit  ?”  I  do. 


I’m  only  going  away  for  Sunday,  coming  back  on  the  Mon¬ 
day,  and  going  to  stay  for  a  week  longer.  Mr.  MacD.  has 
begun  a  pretty  drawing  of  the  study  (and  really  depends  on 
my  assistant  criticism)  ;  and  Diddie,  I  think,  will  enjoy  her 
dinner  with  you  to-morrow  better  than  if  I  had  gone  for 


88 


II  OUT  US  INOLUSUS. 


good  and  all ;  and  I  tliink  I  shall  enjoy  my  Sunday  at  Shef¬ 
field,  if  I  had  gone  for  evil  and  all.  I’ve  turned  the  page 
to  say  I’m  rather  pleased  with  that  trans-mutation  (what  a 
stupid  thing  of  me  to  divide  that  stupid  word)  of  “  for  good 
and  all,”  mockingest  of  common  phrases,  even  if  one  were  go¬ 
ing  away  for  a  honeymoon  it  would  only  be  for  better  or 
worse — or  stay,  perhaps  it  means  for  good  and  all  else.  One 
uses  it  too  without  the  all — “for  good,”  meaning  that  noth¬ 
ing  that  isn’t  good  can  be  eternal.  I  am  puzzled  ;  but  I  be¬ 
lieve  I’m  coming  back  for  good  anyhow.  And,  there  now, 
I’ve  to  turn  the  page  once  more,  and,  I  was  going  to  say 
something  stupid  about  good-by,  a  word  that  makes  me 
shudder  from  head  to  foot. 

I’ve  found  another  stone  for  you,  lapis  lazuli,  which  never 
fades,  and  is  heaven  color  to  all  time. 


That  you  may  not  make  a  complete  infidel  of  yourself  with 
those  insidious  “Arabian  Nights,”  or  a  complete  philosopher 
of  yourself,  which  would  be  unbecoming  at  your  age,  with 
the  “  Council  of  Friends  ”  I  send  you  a  Western  book  of  a 
character  at  once  prosaic,  graceful,  and  simple,  which  will  dis¬ 
enchant  and  refresh  you  at  once.  I  will  find  a  second  volume 
before  you  have  finished  the  first,  and  meanwhile  you  must 
come  and  choose  the  next  book  that  is  to  be,  out  of  my  lib¬ 
rary,  which  you  never  condescend  to  look  at  when  you’re 
here. 

By  hook  or  by  crook,  by  swans  and  cygnets,  by  Carpaccio 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  I’ll  come  to  see  you,  please,  to-day. 

I’m  really  not  quite  so  bad  all  over,  yet  ;  and  I’ve  written 
things  lately  with  much  in  them  that  will  comfort  you  for 
me,  though  I  can’t  quite  comfort  myself.  And  I’ll  come 
often  to  be  lectured  ;  and  I’m  not  reading  novels  just  now, 
but  only  birds  and  beasts. 

I  want  to  know  the  names  of  all  your  five  cats  ;  they  were 
all  at  the  door  yesterday,  and  I  should  have  made  six,  but 
they  ran  away. 

I  send  two  of  Miss  Kate’s  books  for  Mary  and  you  to  keep 


IIORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


89 


as  long  as  you  choose.  Miss  Arnold  is  coming  to-morrow, 
but  I  hope  to  get  to  the  Thwaite  at  half-past  twelve.  Only 
my  morning  goes  just  now  like  the  hash  of  a  Christmas 
cracker. 


I’m  better ;  I  trust  you  are  !  It  is  a  day  at  last ;  and  the 
flowers  are  all  off  their  heads  for  joy.  I’ve  been  writing 
some  pretty  things  too,  and  thinking  naughty  ones,  as  I  do 
when  I’m  pretty  well. 

But  I’ve  lost  my  voice  and  can’t  sing  them  ! 


Yes,  of  course  keep  that  book,  any  time  you  like ;  but  I 
think  you’ll  find  most  of  it  unreadable.  If  you  do  get 
through  it,  you’ll  have  to  tell  me  all  about  it,  you  know,  for 
I’ve  never  read  a  word  of  it  except  just  the  plums  here  and 
there. 

Publishers  are  brutes,  and  always  spoil  one’s  books,  and 
then  say  it’s  our  fault  if  they  don’t  sell ! 

Yes,  that  is  a  lovely  description  of  a  picture.  All  the  same 
I  believe  the  picture  itself  was  merely  modern  sensationalism. 

They  can’t  do  without  death  nowadays,  not  because  they 
want  to  know  how  to  die,  but  because  they’re  too  stupid  to 
live. 


I  hope  you  will  be  comforted  in  any  feeling  of  languor  or 
depression  in  yourself  by  hearing  that  I  also  am  wholly  lack 
lustrous,  depressed,  oppressed,  compressed,  and  dowmpressed, 
by  a  quite  countless  pressgang  of  despondencies,  humilities, 
remorses,  shamefacednesses,  all  overnesses,  all  undernesses, 
sicknesses,  dulnesses,  darknesses,  sulkinesses,  and  everything 
that  rhymes  to  lessness  and  distress,  and  that  I’m  sure  you 
and  I  are  at  present  the  mere  targets  of  the  darts  of  the — , 
etc.,  etc.,  and  Mattie’s  waiting  and  mustn’t  be  loaded  with 
more  sorrow  ;  but  I  can’t  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  to  break  my 
promiso  to-day,  but  it  would  not  be  safe  for  me  to  come. 


90 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


I’ll  look  at  tlie  dial  to-night.  What  a  cruel  thing  of  you  to 
make  me  “  look  upon  it !  ”  I’m  not  gone  to  Venice  yet,  but 
thinking  of  it  hourly.  I’m  very  nearly  done  with  toasting  my 
bishop;  he  just  wants  another  turn  or  two,  and  then  a  little 
butter. 


I’m  a  little  better,  but  can’t  laugh  much  yet,  and  won’t  cry 
if  I  can  help  it.  Yet  it  always  makes  me  nearhy  cry,  to  hear 
of  those  poor  working-men  trying  to  express  themselves  and 
nobody  ever  teaching  them,  nor  anybody  in  all  England, 
knowing  that  painting  is  an  art ,  and  sculpture  also,  and  that 
an  untaught  man  can  no  more  carve  or  paint  than  play  the 
fiddle.  All  efforts  of  the  kind  mean  simply  that  we  have 
neither  master  nor  scholars  in  any  rank  or  any  place.  And 
I,  also,  what  have  I  done  for  Coniston  schools  yet  ?  I  don’t 
deserve  an  oyster  shell,  far  less  an  oyster. 


Kirby  Lonsdale, 

Thursday  evening . 

You  won’t  get  this  note  to-morrow,  I’m  afraid,  but  after 
that  I  think  they  will  be  regular  till  I  reach  Oxford.  It  is  very 
nice  to  know  that  there  is  someone  who  does  care  for  a  letter, 
as  if  she  were  one’s  sister.  You  would  be  glad  to  see  the 
clouds  break  for  me  ;  and  I  had  indeed  a  very  lovely  morning 
drive  and  still  lovelier  evening,  and  full  moonrise  here  over 
the  Lane. 

I  suppose  it  is  Kirk-by-Lune’s  Dale  ?  for  the  church,  I  find, 
is  a  very  important  Norman  relic.  By  the  way,  I  should  tell 
you  that  the  colored  plates  in  the  “Stones  of  Venice”  do 
great  injustice  to  my  drawings  ;  the  patches  are  worn  on  the 
stones.  My  drawings  were  not  good ,  but  the  plates  are  total 
failures.  The  only  one  even  of  the  engravings  which  is 
rightly  done  is  the  (last,  I  think,  in  Appendix)  inlaid  dove  and 
raven.  I’ll  show  you  the  drawing  for  that  when  I  come  back, 
and  perhaps  for  the  San  Michele,  if  I  recollect  to  fetch  it  from 
Oxford,  and  I’ll  fetch  you  the  second  volume,  which  has 
really  good  plates.  That  blue  beginning,  I  forgot  to  say,  is  of 


II  OUT  US  INCLUSUS. 


91 


tlie  Straits  of  Messina,  and  it  is  really  very  like  the  color  of 
the  sea. 

That  is  intensely  curious  about  the  parasitical  plant  of 
Borneo.  But — very  dreadful ! 


You  are  like  Timon  of  Athens,  and  I’m  like  one  of  his  par¬ 
asites.  The  oranges  are  delicious,  the  brown  bread  dainty  ; 
what  the  melon  is  going  to  be  I  have  no  imagination  to  tell. 
But,  oh  me,  I  had  such  a  lovely  letter  from  Dr.  John,  sent 
me  from  Joan  this  morning,  and  I’ve  lost  it.  It  said,  “Is 
Susie  as  good  as  her  letters  ?  If  so,  she  must  be  better. 
What  freshness  of  enjoyment  in  everything  she  says  !  ” 

Alas !  not  in  everything  she  feels  in  this  weather,  I  fear. 
Was  ever  anything  so  awful  ? 


Do  you  know,  Susie,  everything  that  has  happened  to  me 
(and  the  leaf  I  sent  you  this  morning  may  show  you  it  has 
had  some  hurting  in  it)  is  little  in  comparison  to  the  crushing 
and  depressing  effect  on  me  of  what  I  learn  day  by  day  as  I 
work  on,  of  the  cruelty  and  ghastliness  of  the  nature  I  used  to 
think  so  Divine?  But  I  get  out  of  it  by  remembering,  This 
is  but  a  crumb  of  dust  we  call  the  “world,”  and  a  moment  of 
eternity  which  we  call  “  time.”  Can’t  answer  the  great  ques¬ 
tion  to-night. 


I  can  only  thank  you  for  telling  me  ;  and  say,  Praised  be 
God  for  giving  him  back  to  us. 

Worldly  people  say  “Thank  God”  when  they  get  what 
they  want  ;  as  if  it  amused  God  to  plague  them,  and  was  a 
vast  piece  of  self-denial  on  His  part  to  give  them  what  they 
liked.  But  I,  who  am  a  simple  person,  thank  God  when  He 
hurts  me,  because  I  don’t  think  He  likes  it  any  more  than  I 
do  ;  but  I  can’t  praise  Him,  because — I  don’t  understand 
why — I  can  only  praise  what’s  pretty  and  pleasant,  like  get¬ 
ting  back  our  doctor. 


92 


nORTUS  INQLTJSUS. 


2 Qth  November. 

And  to-morrow  I’m  not  to  be  there  ;  and  I’ve  no  present 
for  you,  and  I  am  so  sorry  for  both  of  us  ;  but  oh,  my  dear 
little  Susie,  the  good  people  all  say  this  wretched  makeshift 
of  a  world  is  coming  to  an  end  next  year,  and  you  and  I  and 
everybody  who  likes  birds  and  roses  are  to  have  new  birth¬ 
days  and  presents  of  such  sugar  plums.  Crystals  of  candied 
cloud  and  manna  in  sticks  with  no  ends,  all  the  way  to  the 
sun,  and  white  stones  ;  and  new  names  in  them,  and  heaven 
knows  what  besides. 

It  sounds  all  too  good  to  be  true  ;  but  the  good  people  are  pos¬ 
itive  of  it,  and  so’s  the  great  Pyramid,  and  the  Book  of  Daniel, 
and  the  “Bible of  Amiens.”  You  can’t  possibly  believe  in  any 
more  promises  of  mine,  I  know,  but  if  I  do  come  to  see  you  this 
day  week,  don’t  think  it’s  a  ghost ;  and  believe  at  least  that  wo 
all  love  you  and  rejoice  in  your  birthday  wherever  we  are. 

I’m  so  thankful  you’re  better. 

Beading  my  old  diary,  I  came  on  a  sentence  of  yours  last 
year  about  the  clouds  being  all  “  trimmed  with  swansdown,” 
so  pretty.  ( I  copied  it  out  of  a  letter.)  The  thoughts  of  you 
always  trim  me  with  swansdown. 


I  never  got  your  note  written  yesterday  ;  meant  at  least  to 
do  it  even  after  post  time,  but  was  too  stupid,  and  am  infi¬ 
nitely  so  to-day  also.  Only  I  must  pray  you  to  tell  Sarah  we 
all  had  elder  wine  to  finish  our  evening  with,  and  I  mulled  it 
myself,  and  poured  it  out  from  the  saucepan  into  the  expect¬ 
ants’  glasses,  and  everybody  asked  for  more  ;  and  I  slept  liko 
a  dormouse.  But,  as  I  said,  I  am  so  stupid  this  morning 

that - .  Well,  there’s  no  “that  ”  able  to  say  how  stupid  I 

am,  unless  the  fly  that  wouldn’t  keep  out  of  the  candle  last 
night  ;  and  he  had  some  notion  of  bliss  to  be  found  in  candles, 
and  I’ve  no  notion  of  anything. 


The  blue  sky  is  so  wonderful  to-day,  and  the  woods  after 
the  rain  so  delicious  for  walking  in,  that  I  must  still  delay 


non  TITS  IJYGLUSUS. 


93 


any  school  talk  one  day  more.  Meantime  I’ve  sent  you  a 
book  which  is  in  a  nice  large  print,  and  may  in  some  parts 
interest  you.  I  got  it  that  I  might  be  able  to  see  Scott’s 
material  for  “  Peveril  ;  ”  and  it  seems  to  me  that  he  might 
have  made  more  of  the  real  attack  on  Latham  House  than  of 
the  fictitious  one  on  Front  de  Boeuf’s  castle,  had  he  been  so 
minded,  but  perhaps  he  felt  himself  hampered  by  too  much 
known  fact. 

I’ve  just  finished  and  sent  off  the  index  to  “  Deucalion,” 
first  volume,  and  didn’t  feel  inclined  for  more  schooling  to¬ 
day. 

I’ve  just  had  a  charming  message  from  Martha  Gale,  under 
the  address  of  “that  old  duckling.”  Isn’t  that  nice?  Ethel 
was  coming  to  see  you  to-day,  but  I’ve  confiscated  her  for  the 
woodcock,  and  she  shan’t  come  to-morrow,  for  I  want  you  all 
to  myself  ;  only  it  isn’t  her  fault. 


But  you  gave  my  present  before,  a  month  ago,  and  I’ve 
been  presenting  myself  with  all  sorts  of  things  ever  since ; 
and  now  it’s  not  half  gone.  I’m  very  thankful  for  this,  how¬ 
ever,  just  now,  for  St.  George,  who  is  cramped  in  his  career, 
and  I’ll  accept  it,  if  you  like,  for  him.  Meantime  I’ve  sent  it 
to  the  bank,  and  hold  him  your  debtor.  I’ve  had  the  most 
delicious  gift  besides  I  ever  had  in  my  life — the  Patriarch 
of  Venice’s  blessing  written  with  his  own  hand,  with  his  por¬ 
trait. 

I’ll  bring  you  this  to  see  to-morrow,  and  a  fresh  Turner. 


I  have  forbidden  Joanie’s  going  out  to-day,  for  she  got  a 
little  chill  in  the  wind  last  night,  and  looked  pale  and  defaite 
in  the  evening  ;  she’s  all  right  again,  but  I  can’t  risk  her  out, 
though  she  was  much  minded  to  come,  and  I  am  sure  you 
and  Mary  will  say  I  am  right.  She  will  be  delighted  and  re¬ 
freshed  by  seeing  the  young  ladies  ;  and  the  Turners  look 
grand  in  the  gray  light. 


94 


IIORTUS  INCLUSm . 


So  I  have  told  Baxter  to  bring  up  a  fly  from  the  Water- 
head,  and  to  secure  your  guests  on  their  way  here,  and  put  up 
to  bring  them  so  far  back.  I  shall  also  send  back  by  it  a 
purple  bit  of  Venice,  which  pleases  me,  though  the  mount’s 
too  large  and  spoils  it  a  little  ;  but  you  will  be  gracious  to  it. 

What  delicious  asparagus  and  brown  bread  I’ve  been  hav¬ 
ing  !!!!!!!!  I  should  like  to  write  as  many  notes  of  ad¬ 
miration  as  there  are  waves  on  the  lake  ;  the  octave  must  do. 
I’ve  been  writing  a  pretty  bit  of  chant  for  Byron’s  heroic 
measure.  Joan  must  play  it  to  you  when  she  next  comes. 
I’m  mighty  well,  and  rather  mischievous. 


The  weather  has  grievously  depressed  me  this  last  week, 
and  I  have  not  been  fit  to  speak  to  anybody.  I  had  much  in¬ 
terruption  in  the  early  part  of  it,  though,  from  a  pleasant 
visitor  ;  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  look  rightly  at  your  pretty 
little  book.  Nevertheless,  I’m  quite  sure  your  strength  is  in 
private  letter  writing,  and  that  a  curious  kind  of  shyness  pre¬ 
vents  your  doing  yourself  justice  in  print.  You  might  also 
surely  have  found  a  more  pregnant  motto  about  birds’  nests  I 
Am  not  I  cross  ?  But  these  gray  skies  are  mere  poison  to 
my  thoughts,  and  I  have  been  writing  such  letters  that  I  don’t 
think  many  of  my  friends  are  likely  to  speak  to  me  again. 


I  think  you  must  have  been  spinning  the  sunbeams  into 
gold  to  be  able  to  scatter  gifts  like  this. 

It  is  your  own  light  of  the  eyes  that  has  made  the  woodland 
leaves  so  golden  brown. 

Well,  I  have  just  opened  a  St.  George  account  at  the  Conis- 
ton  Bank,  and  this  will  make  me  grandly  miserly  and  careful. 

I  am  very  thankful  for  it. 

Also  for  Harry’s  saying  of  me  that  I  am  gentle  !  I’ve  been 
quarrelling  with  so  many  people  lately  I  had  forgotten  all 
grace,  till  you  brought  it  back  yesterday  and  made  me  still 
your  gentle,  etc. 


SUSIE’S  LETTERS. 


SUSIE’S  LETTERS. 


The  following  Letters  and  the  little  notes  on  Birds  are  in¬ 
serted  here  by  the  express  wish  of  Mr.  Buskin.  I  had  it  in 
my  mind  to  pay  Susie  some  extremely  fine  compliments  about 
these  Letters  and  Notes,  and  to  compare  her  method  of  ob¬ 
servation  with  Thoreau’s,  and,  above  all,  to  tell  some  very 
pretty  stories  showing  her  St.  Francis-like  sympathy  with, 
and  gentle  power  over,  all  living  creatures  ;  but  Susie  says 
that  she  is  already  far  too  prominent,  and  we  hope  that  the 
readers  of  “  Hortus  ”  will  see  for  themselves  how  she  rever¬ 
ences  and  cherishes  all  noble  life,  with  a  special  tenderness,  I 
think,  for  furred  and  feathered  creatures.  To  all  outcast  and 
hungry  things  the  Th waite  is  a  veritable  Bethlehem,  or  House 
of  Bread,  and  to  her,  their  sweet  “Madonna  Nourrice,”  no 
less  than  to  her  Teacher,  the  sparrows  and  linnets  that  crowd 
its  thresholds  are  in  a  very  particular  sense  “Sons  of  God.” 

A.  F. 


April  14th,  1874. 

I  sent  off  such  a  long  letter  to  you  yesterday,  my  dear 
friend.  Did  you  think  of  your  own  quotation  from  Homer, 
when  you  told  me  that  field  of  yours  was  full  of  violets  ?  But 
where  are  the  four  fountains  of  white  water? — through  a 
meadow  full  of  violets  and  parsley  ?  How  delicious  Calypso’s 
fire  of  finely  chopped  cedar !  How  shall  I  thank  you  for 
allowing  me,  Susie  the  little,  to  distil  your  writings  ?  Such  a 
joy  and  comfort  to  me — for  I  shall  need  much  very  soon  now. 
I  do  so  thank  and  love  you  for  it  ;  I  am  sure  I  may  say  so  to 
you.  I  rejoice  again  and  again  that  I  have  such  a  friend. 

7 


98 


HORTUS  INCLUSTJS. 


May  I  never  love  him  less,  never  prove  unworthy  of  his  friend¬ 
ship  !  How  I  wanted  my  letter,  and  now  it  has  come,  and  I 
have  told  our  Dr.  John  of  your  safe  progress  so  far.  I  trust 
you  will  be  kept  safe  from  everything  that  might  injure  you 
in  any  way. 

The  snow  has  melted  away,  and  this  is  a  really  sweet  April 
day  and  ought  to  be  enjoyed — if  only  Susie  could.  But  both 
she  and  her  dear  friend  must  strive  with  their  grief.  When 
I  was  a  girl — (I  was  once) — I  used  to  delight  in  Pope’s 
Homer.  I  do  believe  I  rather  enjoyed  the  killing  and  slaying, 
specially  the  splitting  down  the  chine!  But  when  I  tried  to 
read  it  again  not  very  long  ago,  I  got  tired  of  this  kind  of 
thing.  If  you  had  only  translated  Homer !  then  I  should 
have  had  a  feast.  When  a  schoolgirl,  going  each  day  with 
my  bag  of  books  into  Manchester,  I  used  to  like  Don 
Quixote  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison  with  my  milk  porridge. 
I  must  send  you  only  this  short  letter  to-day.  I  can  see  your 
violet  field  from  this  window.  How  sweetly  the  little  limpid 
stream  would  tinkle  to-day  ;  and  how  the  primroses  are  sitting 
listening  to  it  and  the  little  birds  sipping  it !  I  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  bees  go  more  by  sight  than  by  scent.  As 
I  stand  by  my  peacock  with  his  gloriously  gorgeous  tail  all 
spread  out,  a  bee  comes  right  at  it  (very  vulgar,  but  expres¬ 
sive)  ;  and  I  have  an  Alpine  Primula  on  this  window-stone 
brightly  in  flower,  and  a  bee  came  and  alighted,  but  went 
away  again  at  once,  not  finding  the  expected  honey.  I  won¬ 
der  what  you  do  the  livelong  day,  for  I  know  you  and  idle¬ 
ness  are  not  acquaintances.  I  am  so  sorry  your  favorite 
places  are  spoiled.  But  dear  Brantwood  will  grow  prettier 
and  prettier  under  your  care. 


April  9  th. 

I  have  just  been  pleased  by  seeing  a  blackbird  enjoying, 
with  schoolboy  appetite,  portions  of  a  moistened  crust  of 
bread  which  I  threw  out  for  him  and  his  fellow-creatures. 
How  he  dug  with  his  orange  bill ! — even  more  orange  than 
usual  perhaps  at  this  season  of  the  year.  At  length  the 


HOB T US  INCLUSUS. 


99 


robing  have  built  a  nest  in  the  ivy  in  our  yard — a  very  secure 
and  sheltered  place,  and  a  very  convenient  distance  from  the 
crumb  market.  Like  the  old  woman,  he  sings  with  a  merry 
devotion,  and  she  thinks  there  never  was  such  music,  as  she 
sits  upon  her  eggs  ;  he  comes  again  and  again,  with  every  little 
dainty  that  his  limited  income  allows,  and  she  thinks  it  all  the 
sweeter  because  he  brings  it  to  her.  Now  and  then  she  leaves 
her  nest  to  stretch  her  wings,  and  to  shake  off  the  dust 
of  care,  and  to  prevent  her  pretty  ankles  being  cramped.  But 
she  knows  her  duty  too  well  to  remain  absent  long  from  her 
precious  eggs. 

Now  another  little  note  from  Dr.  John,  and  he  actually 
begins,  “My  dear  ‘Susie,’” — and  ends,  “Let  me  hear  from 
you  soon.  Ever  yours  affectionately.”  Also  he  says,  “It  is 
very  kind  in  you  to  let  me  get  at  once  close  to  you.”  The 
rest  of  his  short  letter  (like  you,  he  was  busy)  is  nearly  all 
about  you,  so  of  course  it  is  interesting  to  me,  and  he  hopes 
you  are  already  getting  good  from  the  change,  and  I  indulge 
the  same  hope. 


10  th  April. 

Brantwood  looked  so  very  nice  this  morning  decorated  by 
the  coming  into  leaf  of  the  larches.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  them  in  the  distance  as  I  did  :  the  early  sunshine  had 
glanced  upon  them  lighting  up  one  side,  and  leaving  the  other 
in  softest  shade,  and  the  tender  green  contrasted  with  the 
deep  browns,  and  grays  stood  out  in  a  wonderful  way,  and  the 
trees  looked  like  spirits  of  the  wood,  which  you  might  think 
would  melt  away  like  the  White  Lady  of  Avenel. 

Dear  sweet  April  still  looks  coldly  upon  us — the  month  you 
love  so  dearly.  Little  white  lambs  are  in  the  fields  now,  and 
so  much  that  is  sweet  is  coming  ;  but  there  is  a  shadow  over 
this  house  now  ;  and,  also,  my  dear  kind  friend  is  far  away. 
The  horse-chestnuts  have  thrown  away  the  winter  coverings 
of  their  buds,  and  given  them  to  that  dear  economical  mother 
earth,  who  makes  such  good  use  of  everything,  and  works  up 
old  materials  again  in  a  wonderful  way,  and  is  delightfully 
Unlike  most  economists — the  very  soul  of  generous  liberality. 


100 


non T US  INGLUSUS. 


Now  some  of  your  own  words,  so  powerful  as  they  are — you 
are  speaking  of  the  Alp  and  of  the  “  Great  Builder  ” — of  your 
own  transientness,  as  of  the  grass  upon  its  sides  ;  and  in  this 
very  sadness,  a  sense  of  strange  companionship  with  past 
generations,  in  seeing  what  they  saw.  They  have  ceased  to 
look  upon  it,  you  will  soon  cease  to  look  also  ;  and  the  granite 
wall  will  be  for  others,  etc.,  etc. 

My  dear  friend,  was  there  ever  anyone  so  pathetic  as  you  ? 
And  you  have  the  power  of  bringing  things  before  one,  both 
to  the  eye  and  to  the  mind  :  you  do  indeed  paint  with  your 
pen.  Now  I  have  a  photograph  of  you — not  a  very  satisfactory 
one,  but  still  I  am  glad  to  have  it,  rather  than  none.  It  was 
done  at  Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Were  you  in  search  of  something 
of  Bewick’s  ? 

I  have  just  given  the  squirrel  his  little  loaf  (so  you  see  I 
am  a  lady),*  he  has  bounded  away  with  it,  full  of  joy  and 
gladness.  I  wish  that  this  were  my  case  and  yours ,  for  what¬ 
ever  we  may  wish  for,  that  we  have  not.  We  have  a  variety 
and  abundance  of  loaves.  I  have  asked  Dr.  J.  Brown  whether 
he  would  like  photographs  of  your  house  and  the  picturesque 
breakwater.  I  do  so  wish  that  you  and  he  and  I  did  not  suffer 
so  much,  but  could  be  at  least  moderately  happy.  I  am  sure 
you  would  be  glad  if  you  knew,  even  in  this  time  of  sorrow, 
when  all  seems  stale,  flat,  unprofitable,  the  pleasure  and 
interest  I  have  had  in  reading  your  Yol.  3  [“  Modern 
Painters”].  I  study  your  character  in  your  writings,  and  I 
find  so  much  to  elevate,  to  love,  to  admire — a  sort  of  educa¬ 
tion  for  my  poor  old  self — and  oh !  such  beauty  of  thought 
and  word. 


Even  yet  my  birds  want  so  much  bread  ;  I  do  believe  the 
worms  are  sealed  up  in  the  dry  earth,  and  they  have  many 
little  mouths  to  fill  just  now — and  there  is  one  old  blackbird 
whose  devotion  to  his  wife  and  children  is  lovely.  I  should 
like  him  never  to  die,  he  is  one  of  my  heroes.  And  now  a  dog 


*  See  Fors  Clavigera,  Letter  XLY. 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


101 


which  calls  upon  me  sometimes  at  the  window,  and  I  point 
kitchen  ward  and  the  creature  knows  what  I  mean,  and  goes 
and  gets  a  good  meal.  So  if  I  can  only  make  a  dog  happy 
(as  you  do,  only  you  take  yours  to  live  with  you,  and  I  cannot 
do  that)  it  is  a  pleasant  thing.  I  do  so  like  to  make  things 
happier,  and  I  should  like  to  put  bunches  of  hay  in  the  fields 
for  the  poor  horses,  for  there  is  very  scant  supply  of  grass,  and 
too  many  for  the  supply. 


1  st  May. 

I  cannot  longer  refrain  from  writing  to  you,  my  dear  kind 
friend,  so  often  are  you  in  my  thoughts.  Dearest  Joanie  has 
told  you,  I  doubt  not,  and  I  know  how  sorry  you  are,  and  how 
truly  you  are  feeling  for  your  poor  Susie.  So  knowing  that ,  I 
will  say  no  more  about  my  sorrow.  There  is  no  need  for 
words.  I  am  wishing,  oh,  so  much,  to  know  how  you  are  : 
quite  safe  and  well,  I  hope,  and  able  to  have  much  real  enjoy¬ 
ment  in  the  many  beautiful  things  by  which  you  are  sur¬ 
rounded.  May  you  lay  up  a  great  stock  of  good  health  and 
receive  much  good  in  many  ways,  and  then  return  to  those 
who  so  much  miss  you,  and  by  whom  you  are  so  greatly  be¬ 
loved. 

Coniston  would  go  into  your  heart  if  you  could  see  it  now 
— so  very  lovely,  the  oak  trees  so  early,  nearly  in  leaf  already. 
Your  beloved  blue  hyacinths  will  soon  be  out,  and  the  cuckoo 
has  come,  but  it  is  long  since  Susie  has  been  out.  She  only 
stands  at  an  open  window,  but  sho  must  try  next  week  to  go 
into  the  garden  ;  and  she  is  finding  a  real  pleasure  in  making 
extracts  from  your  writings  for  you,  often  wondering  “will 
he  let  that  remain  ?  ”  and  hoping  that  he  will. 

Do  you  ever  send  home  orders  about  your  Brantwood  ?  I 
have  been  wishing  so  much  that  your  gardener  might  be  told 
to  mix  quantities  of  old  mortar  and  soil  together,  and  to  fill 
many  crevices  in  vour  new  walls  with  it  ;  then  the  breezes 
will  bring  fern  seeds  and  plant  them,  or  rather  sow  them  in 
such  fashion  as  no  human  being  can  do.  When  time  and  the 
showers  brought  by  the  west  wind  have  mellowed  it  a  little, 


102 


IIORTUS  IN  CL  US  US. 


tlie  tiny  beginnings  of  mosses  will  be  there.  The  sooner  this 
can  be  done  the  better.  Do  not  think  Susie  presumptuous. 

We  have  hot  sun  and  a  very  cool  air,  which  I  do  not  at  all 
like. 

I  hope  your  visit  to  Palermo  and  your  lady  have  been  all 
that  you  could  wish.  Please  do  write  to  me  ;  it  would  do  me 
so  much  good  and  so  greatly  refresh  me. 

This  poor  little  letter  is  scarcely  worth  sending,  only  it  says 
that  I  am  your  loving  Susie. 


\kth  May. 

My  dearest  Friend, — Your  letter  yesterday  did  me  so  much 
good,  and  though  I  answered  it  at  once  yet  here  I  am  again. 
A  kind  woman  from  the  other  side  has  sent  me  the  loveliest 
group  of  drooping  and  very  tender  ferns,  soft  as  of  some  vel¬ 
vet  belonging  to  the  fairies,  and  of  the  most  exquisite  green, 
and  primroses,  and  a  slender-stalked  white  flower,  and  so  ar¬ 
ranged  that  they  continually  remind  me  of  that  enchanting 
group  of  yours  in  Yol.  3,  which  you  said  I  might  cut  out. 
What  would  you  have  thought  of  me  if  I  had  ?  Oh,  that  you 
would  and  could  sketch  this  group — or  even  that  your  eye 
could  rest  upon  it !  Now  you  will  laugh  if  I  ask  you  whether 
harpies  ever  increase  in  number  ?  or  whether  they  are  only 
the  “  old  original.”  They  quite  torment  me  when  I  open  the 
window,  and  blow  chaff  at  me.  I  suppose  at  this  moment 
dearest  Joanie  is  steaming  away  to  Liverpool ;  one  always 
wants  to  know  now  whether  people  accomplish  a  journey 
safely.  When  the  blackbirds  come  for  soaked  bread,  they 
generally  eat  a  nice  little  lot  themselves,  before  carrying  any 
away  from  the  window  for  their  little  ones  ;  but  Bobbie,  “  our 
little  English  Bobin,”  has  just  been  twice,  took  none  for  him¬ 
self,  but  carries  beak-load  after  beak-load  for  his  speckled  in¬ 
fants.  How  curious  the  universal  love  of  bread  is  ;  so  many 
things  like  and  eat  it — even  flies,  and  snails  ! 

You  know  you  inserted  a  letter  from  Jersey  about  fish  !* 


*  See  Tors  Clavigera,  Letter  XXX, 


HORTUS  INCLUSUS . 


103 


A  lady  there  tells  me  that  formerly  you  might  have  a  bucket 
of  oysters  for  sixpence,  and  that  now  you  can  scarcely  get 
anything  but  such  coarse  kinds  of  fish  as  are  not  liked  ;  and 
she  has  a  sister,  a  sad  invalid,  to  whom  fish  would  be  a  very 
pleasant  and  wholesome  change.  This  is  really  a  sad  state  of 
things,  and  here  the  railways  seem  very  likely  to  carry  away 
our  butter,  and  it  is  now  such  a  price,  quite  ex[h]orbitant. 
Why  did  I  put  an  h  in  ?  Is  it  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  you 
say,  that  ladies  do  not  spell  well  ?  A  letter  which  I  once 
wrote  when  a  girl  was  a  wonderful  specimen  of  bad  spelling. 


15  th  May. 

I  have  found  such  lovely  passages  in  Vol.  1  this  morning 
that  I  am  delighted,  and  have  begun  to  copy  one  of  them. 
You  do  float  in  such  beautiful  things  sometimes  that  you 
make  me  feel  I  don’t  know  how  ! 

How  I  thank  you  for  ever  having  written  them,  for  though 
late  in  the  day,  they  were  written  for  me,  and  have  at  length 
reached  me  ! 

You  are  so  candid  about  your  age  that  I  shall  tell  you 
mine  !  I  am  astonished  to  find  myself  sixty-eight — very  near 
the  Psalmist’s  threescore  and  ten.  Much  illness  and  much 
sorrow,  and  then  I  woke  up  to  find  myself  old,  and  as  if  I  had 
lost  a  great  part  of  my  life.  Let  us  hope  it  was  not  all  lost. 

I  think  you  can  understand  me  when  I  say  that  I  have  a 
great  fund  of  love,  and  no  one  to  spend  it  upon,  because 
there  are  not  any  to  whom  I  could  give  it  fully,  and  I  love 
my  pets  so  dearly,  but  I  dare  not  and  cannot  enjoy  it  fully 
because — they  die,  or  get  injured,  and  then  my  misery  is  in¬ 
tense.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  tell  you  much,  because  your  sym¬ 
pathy  is  so  refined  and  so  tender  and  true.  Cannot  I  be  a 
a  sort  of  second  mother  to  you  ?  I  am  sure  the  first  one  was 
often  praying  for  blessings  for  you,  and  in  this,  at  least,  I  re¬ 
semble  her. 

Am  I  tiresome  writing  all  this  ?  It  just  came,  and  you 
said  I  was  to  write  what  did.  We  have  had  some  nice  rain, 
but  followed  not  by  warmth,  but  a  cruel  east  wind. 


104 


nORTUS  INCLUSUS. 


ABOUT  WRENS. 

This  year  I  have  seen  wrens’  nests  in  three  different  kinds 
of  places — one  built  in  the  angle  of  a  doorway,  one  under  a 
bank,  and  a  third  near  the  top  of  a  raspberry  bush  ;  this  last 
was  so  large  that  when  our  gardener  first  saw  it,  he  thought 
it  was  a  swarm  of  bees.  It  seems  a  pleasure  to  this  active 
bird  to  build  ;  he  will  begin  to  build  several  nests  sometimes 
before  he  completes  one  for  Jenny  Wren  to  lay  her  eggs  and 
make  her  nursery.  Think  how  busy  both  he  and  Jenny  are 
when  the  sixteen  young  ones  come  out  of  their  shells — little 
helpless  gaping  things  wanting  feeding  in  their  turns  the  live¬ 
long  summer  day  !  What  hundreds  and  thousands  of  small 
insects  they  devour  !  They  catch  flies  with  good-sized  wings. 
I  have  seen  a  parent  wren  with  its  beak  so  full  that  the  wings 
stood  out  at  each  side  like  the  whiskers  of  a  cat. 

Once  in  America,  in  the  month  of  June,  a  mower  hung  up 
his  coat  under  a  shed  near  a  barn  ;  two  or  three  days  passed 
before  he  had  occasion  to  put  it  on  again.  Thrusting  his  arm 
up  the  sleeve  he  found  it  completely  filled  with  something, 
and  on  pulling  out  the  mass  he  found  it  to  be  the  nest  of  a 
wren,  completely  finished  and  lined  with  feathers.  What  a 
pity  that  all  the  labor  of  the  little  pair  had  been  in  vain  ! 
Great  was  the  distress  of  the  birds,  who  vehemently  and 
angrily  scolded  him  for  destroying  their  house  ;  happily  it 
was  an  empty  one,  without  either  eggs  or  young  birds. 


HISTORY  OF  A  BLACKBIRD. 

We  had  had  one  of  those  summer  storms  which  so  injure 
the  beautiful  flowers  and  the  young  leaves  of  the  trees.  A 
blackbird’s  nest  with  young  ones  in  it  was  blown  out  of  the 
ivy  on  the  wall,  and  the  little  ones,  with  the  exception  of  one, 
were  killed  !  The  poor  little  bird  did  not  escape  without  a 
wound  upon  his  head,  and  when  he  was  brought  to  me  it  did 
not  seem  very  likely  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  rear  him  ; 


nORTUS  INCLUSUS . 


105 


but  I  could  not  refuse  to  take  in  the  little  helpless  stranger, 
so  I  put  him  into  a  covered  basket  for  a  while. 

I  soon  found  that  I  had  undertaken  what  was  no  easy  task, 
for  he  required  feeding  so  early  in  a  morning  that  I  was 
obliged  to  take  him  and  his  bread  crumbs  into  my  bed-room, 
and  jump  up  to  feed  him  as  soon  as  he  began  to  chirp,  which 
he  did  in  very  good  time. 

Then  in  the  daytime  I  did  not  dare  to  have  him  in  the  sit¬ 
ting-room  with  me,  because  my  sleek  favorites,  the  cats, 
would  soon  have  devoured  him,  so  I  carried  him  up  into  an 
attic,  and  as  he  required  feeding  very  often  in  the  day,  you 
may  imagine  that  I  had  quite  enough  of  exercise  in  running 
up  and  down  stairs. 

But  I  was  not  going  to  neglect  the  helpless  thing  after 
once  undertaking  to  nurse  him,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  him  thrive  well  upon  his  diet  of  dry-bread  crumbs  and 
a  little  scrap  of  raw  meat  occasionally  ;  this  last  delicacy,  you 
know,  was  a  sort  of  imitation  of  worms ! 

Very  soon  my  birdie  knew  my  step,  and  though  he  never 
exactly  said  so,  I  am  sure  he  thought  it  had  “music  in’t,”  for 
as  soon  as  I  touched  the  handle  of  the  door  he  set  up  a  shriek 
of  joy  ! 

“The  bird  that  we  nurse  is  the  bird  that  we  love,”  and  I 
soon  loved  Dick.  And  the  love  was  not  all  on  one  side,  for 
my  bonnie  bird  would  sit  upon  my  finger  uttering  complacent 
little  chirps,  and  when  I  sang  to  him  in  a  low  voice  he  would 
gently  peck  my  hair. 

As  he  grew  on  and  wanted  to  use  his  limbs,  I  put  him  into 
a  large  wicker  bonnet-basket,  having  taken  out  the  lining  ;  it 
made  him  a  large,  cheerful,  airy  cage.  Of  course  I  had  a 
perch  put  across  it,  and  he  had  plenty  of  white  sand  and  a 
pan  of  water  ;  sometimes  I  set  his  bath  on  the  floor  of  tho 
room,  and  he  delighted  in  bathing  until  he  looked  half- 
drowned  ;  then  what  shaking  of  his  feathers,  what  preening 
and  arranging  there  was !  And  how  happy  and  clean  and 
comfortable  he  looked  when  his  toilet  was  completed  ! 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  took  him  some  of  the  first  ripe 
currants  and  strawberries,  for  blackbirds  like  fruit,  and  so 


106 


HOHTUS  INCLUSU8. 


do  boys !  When  lie  was  fledged  I  let  him  out  in  the  room, 
and  so  he  could  exercise  his  wings.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that 
if  I  went  up  to  him  with  my  bonnet  on  he  did  not  know  me 
at  all,  but  was  in  a  state  of  great  alarm. 

Blackbirds  are  wild  birds,  and  do  not  bear  being  kept  in  a 
cage,  not  even  so  well  as  some  other  birds  do ;  and  as  this 
bird  grew  up  he  was  not  so  tame,  and  was  rather  restless.  I 
knew  that,  though  I  loved  him  so  much,  I  ought  not  to  keep 
him  shut  up  against  his  will.  He  was  carried  down  into  the 
garden  while  the  raspberries  were  ripe,  and  allowed  to  fly 
away ;  and  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  Do  you  wonder 
that  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  he  left? 


IN  MONTIBTIS  SANCTIS. 

STUDIES  OF  MOUNTAIN  FORM 
AND  OF  ITS  VISIBLE  CAUSES. 


COLLECTED  AND  COMPLETED  OUT  OF 

“MODERN  PAINTERS.0 


i 


PREFACE. 


I  receive  at  present  with  increasing  frequency  requests  or 
counsels  from  people  whose  wishes  and  advice  I  respect,  for 
the  reprinting  of  “  Modern  Painters.”  When  I  formerly  stated 
my  determination  not  to  republish  that  work  in  its  original 
form,  it  was  always  with  the  purpose  of  giving  its  scientific 
sections  with  farther  illustration  in  “Deucalion  ”  and  “Proser¬ 
pina,”  and  extracts  from  those  relating  to  art  and  education  in 
my  Oxford  Lectures.  But  finding,  usually,  for  these  last, 
subjects  more  immediately  interesting  ;  and  seeing  that  Deu¬ 
calion  and  Proserpina  have  quite  enough  to  do  in  their  own 
way — for  the  time  they  have  any  chance  of  doing  it  in — I  am 
indeed  minded  now  to  reprint  the  three  scientific  sections 
of  “  Modern  Painters  ”  in  their  original  terms,  which,  very 
thankfully  I  find,  cannot  much  be  bettered,  for  what  they 
intend  or  attempt.  The  scientific  portions,  divided  prospec¬ 
tively,  in  the  first  volume,  into  four  sections,  were  meant  to 
define  the  essential  forms  of  sky,  earth,  water,  and  vegetation  ; 
but  finding  that  I  had  not  the  mathematical  knowledge  re¬ 
quired  for  the  analysis  of  wave-action,  the  chapters  on  Sea¬ 
painting  were  never  finished,  the  materials  for  them  being 
partly  used  in  the  “Harbors  of  England,”  and  the  rest  of  the 
design  remitted  till  I  could  learn  more  dynamics.  But  it 
was  never  abandoned,  and  the  corrections  already  given  in 
“  Deucalion  ”  of  the  errors  of  Agassiz  and  Tyndall  on  the 
glacier  theory  are  based  on  studies  of  wave-motion  which  I 
hope  still  to  complete  the  detail  of  in  that  work. 

My  reprints  from  “  Modern  Painters  ”  will  therefore  fall 
only  into  three  divisions,  on  the  origin  of  form  in  clouds, 
mountains,  and  trees.  They  will  be  given  in  the  pages  and 


110 


PREFACE. 


type  now  chosen  for  my  Oxford  Lectures  ;  and  the  two  lect¬ 
ures  on  existing  Storm-cloud  already  published  will  form  a 
proper  introduction  to  the  cloud-studies  of  former  times,  of 
which  the  first  number  is  already  in  the  press.  In  like 
manner,  the  following  paper,  prepared  to  be  read  before  the 
Mineralogical  Society  on  the  occasion  of  their  meeting  in  Ed¬ 
inburgh,  this  year,  and  proposing,  in  brief  abstract,  the  ques¬ 
tions  which  are  at  the  root  of  rock-science,  may  not  unfitly 
introduce  the  chapters  of  geological  inquiry,  begun  at  the 
foot  of  the  Matterhorn  thirty  years  ago,  inquiries  which  were 
the  proper  sequel  of  those  instituted  by  Saussure,  and  from 
which  the  fury  of  investigation  in  extinct  zoology  has  since  so 
far  diverted  the  attention  of  mineralogists,  that  I  have  been 
virtually  left  to  pursue  them  alone  ;  not  without  some  re¬ 
sults,  for  which,  fortified  as  they  are  by  the  recent  advance 
of  rock-chemistry,  I  might  claim,  did  I  care  to  claim,  the 
dignity  of  Discoveries.  For  the  separate  enumeration  of 
these,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  postscript  to  the  opening 
paper. 

The  original  wood-cuts  will  all  be  used  in  this  edition,  but 
in  order  not  to  add  to  the  expense  of  the  republished  text,  I 
have  thought  it  best  that  such  of  the  steel  plates  as  are  still 
in  a  state  to  give  fair  impressions,  should  be  printed  and 
bound  apart ;  purchasable  either  collectively  or  in  separate 
parts,  illustrative  of  the  three  several  sections  of  text.  These 
will  be  advertised  when  ready. 

The  text  of  the  old  book,  as  in  the  already  reprinted 
second  volume,  will  be  in  nothing  changed,  and  only  occa¬ 
sionally  explained  or  amplified  by  notes  in  brackets. 

It  is  also  probable  that  a  volume  especially  devoted  to  the 
subject  of  Education  may  be  composed  of  passages  gathered 
out  of  the  entire  series  of  my  works ;  and  since  the  parts  of 
“  Modern  Painters  ”  bearing  on  the  principles  of  art  will  be 
incorporated  in  the  school  lectures  connected  with  my  duty  at 
Oxford,  whatever  is  worth  preservation  in  the  whole  book 
will  be  thus  placed  at  the  command  of  the  public. 

Brantwood, 

1  (H7i  September ,  1884. 


IN  MONTIBTJS  SANCTIS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

OF  THE  DISTINCTIONS  OF  FORM  IN  SILICA. 

(Bead  before  the  Miner alogical  Society ,  July  24,  1884.) 

As  this  paper,  by  the  courtesy  of  the  secretaries,  stands 
first  on  the  list  of  those  to  be  read  at  the  meeting,  I  avail  my¬ 
self  of  the  privilege  thus  granted  me  of  congratulating  the 
Society  on  this  occasion  of  its  meeting  in  the  capital  of  a 
country  which  is  itself  one  magnificent  mineralogical  speci¬ 
men,  reaching  from  Cheviot  to  Cape  Wrath  ;  thus  gathering 
into  the  most  convenient  compass,  and  presenting  in  the 
most  instructive  forms,  examples  of  nearly  every  mineralogi¬ 
cal  process  and  phenomenon  which  have  taken  place  in  the 
construction  of  the  world. 

May  I  be  permitted,  also,  to  felicitate  myself,  on  the  per¬ 
mission  thus  given  me,  to  bring  before  the  Mineralogical  So¬ 
ciety  a  question  which,  in  Edinburgh,  of  all  cities  of  the 
world,  it  should  be  easiest  to  solve,  namely,  the  methods  of 
the  construction  and  painting  of  a  Scotch  pebble  ? 

I  am  the  more  happy  in  this  unexpected  privilege,  because, 
though  an  old  member  of  the  Geological  Society,  my  geolog¬ 
ical  observations  have  always  been  as  completely  ignored  by 
that  Society,  as  my  remarks  on  political  economy  by  the 
Directors  of  the  Bank  of  England  ;  and  although  I  have  re¬ 
peatedly  solicited  from  them  the  charity  of  their  assistance  in 
so  small  a  matter  as  the  explanation  of  an  agate  stone  on  the 
forefinger  of  an  alderman,  they  still,  as  l  stated  the  ease  in 


112 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


closing  my  first  volume  of  “  Deucalion,”  discourse  on  the  ca¬ 
tastrophes  of  chaos,  and  the  processes  of  creation,  without 
being  able  to  tell  why  a  slate  splits,  or  how  a  pebble  is  col¬ 
ored. 

Pebble — or  crystal ;  here  in  Scotland  the  main  questions 
respecting  these  two  main  forms  of  silica  are  put  to  us,  with 
a  close  solicitude,  by  the  beautiful  conditions  of  agate,  and 
the  glowing  colors  of  the  Cairngorm,  which  have  always  varie¬ 
gated  and  illuminated  the  favorite  jewelry  of  Scottish  laird 
and  lassie. 

May  I  hope,  with  especial  reference  to  the 

“  favorite  gem 

Of  Scotland's  mountain  diadem,” 

to  prevail  on  some  Scottish  mineralogist  to  take  up  the 
hitherto  totally  neglected  subject  of  the  relation  of  color  in 
minerals  to  their  state  of  substance  :  why,  for  instance,  large 
and  well-developed  quartz  crystals  are  frequently  topaz 
color  or  smoke  color, — never  rose-color  ;  while  massive  quartz 
may  be  rose-color,  and  pure  white  or  gray,  but  never  smoke 
color; — again,  why  amethyst  quartz  may  continually,  as  at 
Schemnitz  and  other  places,  be  infinitely  complex  and  multi¬ 
plex  in  crystallization,  but  never  warped  ;  while  smoky  quartz 
may  be  continually  found  warped,  but  never,  in  the  amethys¬ 
tine  way,  multiplex  ; — why,  again,  smoky  quartz  and  Cairn¬ 
gorm  are  continually  found  in  short  crystals,  but  never  in 
long  slender  ones, — as,  to  take  instance  in  another  mineral, 
white  beryl  is  usually  short  or  even  tabular,  and  green  beryl 
long,  almost  in  proportion  to  its  purity  ? 

And,  for  the  better  solution,  or  at  least  proposition,  of  the 
many  questions,  such  as  these,  hitherto  undealt  with  by 
science,  might  I  also  hope  that  the  efforts  of  the  Mineralogi- 
cal  Society  may  be  directed,  among  other  quite  feasible  ob¬ 
jects  not  }^et  attained,  to  the  formation  of  a  museum  of  what 
might  be  called  mineral-geology,  showing  examples  of  all 
familiar  minerals  in  association  with  their  native  rocks,  on  a 
sufficiently  large  and  intelligible  scale.  There  may  be,  per¬ 
haps,  by  this  time,  in  the  museum  of  Edinburgh, — but  there 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


113 


is  not  in  the  British  Museum,  nor  have  I  ever  myself  seen, — 
either  a  specimen  of  pure  Cairngorm  in  the  gangue,  or  a 
block  of  trap  containing  agates  of  really  high  quality,  whether 
from  Scotland,  Germany,  or  India. 

Knowing  the  value  of  time  to  the  meeting,  I  leave  this,  to 
my  thinking,  deeply  important  subject  of  the  encouragement 
of  geognostic  mineralogy,  to  their  own  farther  consideration  ; 
and  pass  to  a  point  of  terminology  which  is  of  extreme  sig¬ 
nificance  in  the  study  of  siliceous  minerals,  namely,  the  de¬ 
sirableness,  and  I  should  myself  even  say  the  necessity,  of 
substituting  the  term  “  spheroidal  ”  for  “  reniform”  in  minera- 
logical  description.  Every  so-called  “  kidney-shaped  ’’mineral 
is  an  aggregate  of  spheroidal  crystallizations,  and  it  would  be 
just  as  rational  and  elegant  to  call  sea-foam  kidney-shaped,  as 
to  call  chalcedony  so.  The  word  “  Botryoidal  ”  is  yet  more 
objectionable,  because  it  is  wholly  untrue.  There  are  many 
minerals  that  resemble  kidneys  ;  but  there  is  no  substance 
in  the  whole  mineral  kingdom  that  resembles  a  bunch  of 
grapes.  The  pisolitic  aggregations  which  a  careless  observer 
might  think  grape-like,  are  only  like  grap e-shot,  and  lie  in 
heaps,  not  clusters. 

But  the  change  I  would  propose  is  not  a  matter  of  mere 
accuracy  or  elegance  in  description.  For  want  of  observing 
that  the  segmental  surfaces  of  so-called  reniform  and  botryoi¬ 
dal  minerals  are  spheroidal,  the  really  crystalline  structure 
producing  that  external  form  has  been  overlooked,  and,  in  con¬ 
sequence,  minerals  have  been  continually  described  either  as 
amorphous,  or  as  mixtures  of  different  substances,  which  are 
neither  formless  nor  mingled,  but  are  absolutely  defined  in 
structure,  and  absolutely  homogeneous  in  substance. 

There  are  at  least  six  states  of  siliceous  substance  which  are 
thus  entirely  distinct, — flint,  jasper,  chalcedony,  hyalite,  opal, 
and  quartz.  They  are  only  liable  to  be  confused  with  each 
other  in  bad  specimens  ;  each  has  its  own  special  and  separate 
character,  and  needs  peculiar  circumstances  for  its  production 
and  development.  The  careful  history  of  the  forms  of  these 
six  minerals,  and  the  careful  collection  of  the  facts  respecting 
the  mode  of  their  occurrence,  would  require  a  volume  as  large 
8 


114 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


as  any  that  are  usually  issued  by  way  of  complete  systems  of 
mineralogy.  Whereas,  sufficient  account  is  usually  supposed 
to  be  rendered  of  them  in  a  few  sentences,  and,  moreover, 
every  sentence  of  these  concise  abstracts  usually  contains,  or 
implies,  an  unchallenged  fallacy. 

I  take,  for  example,  from  the  account  of  “  clialcedonic  vari¬ 
eties  of  quartz  ”  given  in  Dana’s  octavo  of  456  close-printed 
pages  (Triibner,  1879), — the  entire  account  occupies  no  more 
than  a  page  and  three  lines, — the  following  sentences : 

“  Chalcedony  oftens  occurs  lining  or  filling  cavities  in  amyg- 
daloidal  rocks,  and  sometimes  in  other  kinds.  These  cavities 
are  nothing  but  little  caverns,  into  which  siliceous  waters 
have  filtrated  at  some  period.  The  stalactites  are  ‘  icicles  ’  of 
chalcedony,  hung  from  the  roof  of  the  cavity. 

“  Agate,  a  variegated  chalcedony.  The  colors  are  distrib¬ 
uted  in  clouds,  spots,  or  concentric  lines.  These  lines  take 
straight,  circular,  or  zigzag  forms,  and  when  the  last,  it  is 
called  fortification  agate,  so  named  from  the  resemblance  to 
the  angular  outlines  of  a  fortification.  These  lines  are  the 
edges  of  layers  of  chalcedony,  and  these  layers  are  successive 
deposits  during  the  process  of  its  formation. 

“  Mocha  stone,  or  moss  agate,  is  a  brownish  agate,  consist¬ 
ing  of  chalcedony  with  dentritic  or  moss-like  delineations,  of 
an  opaque  yellowish-brown  color.” 

Now,  with  respect  to  the  first  of  these  statements,  it  is  true 
that  cavities  in  amygdaloidal  rocks  are  nothing  but  little  cav¬ 
erns,  just  as  caverns  in  any  rocks  are  nothing  but  large  cavi¬ 
ties.  But  the  rocks  are  called  “  amygdaloidal,”  because  their 
cavities  are  in  the  shape  of  almonds,  and  there  must  be  a 
reason  for  this  almond  shape,  which  will  bear  on  the  struct¬ 
ure  of  their  contents.  It  is  also  true  that  in  the  rocks  of  Ice¬ 
land  there  are  cavities  lined  with  stalactites  of  chalcedony. 
But  I  believe  no  member  of  this  Society  has  ever  seen  a  cavity 
in  Scotch  trap  lined  with  stalactites  of  chalcedony ;  nor  a 
Scotch  pebble  which  gave  the  slightest  evidence  of  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  its  infiltration. 

The  second  sentence  is  still  more  misleading,  for  in  no 
sense  is  it  toe  that  agate  is  a  “  variegated  ghalgedony.”  It  is 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


115 


chalcedony  separated  into  bands  of  various  consistence,  and 
associated  with  parallel  bands  of  jasper  and  quartz.  And 
whether  these  bands  are  successive  deposits  during  the  pro¬ 
cess  of  formation  or  not,  must  be  questionable  until  we  pro¬ 
duce  the  resemblance  of  an  agate  by  a  similar  operation, 
which  I  would  very  earnestly  request  some  of  the  members 
of  the  Mineralogical  Society  to  do,  before  allowing  state¬ 
ments  of  this  positive  kind  to  be  made  on  the  subject  in  pop¬ 
ular  text-books. 

The  third  sentence  confounds  Mocha  stone  with  moss 
agate,  they  being  entirely  different  minerals.  The  delinea¬ 
tions  in  Mocha  stone  are  dendritic,  and  produced  by  mechan¬ 
ical  dissemination  of  metallic  oxides,  easily  imitable  by  drop¬ 
ping  earthy  colors  into  paste.  But  moss  agates  are  of  two 
kinds,  brown  and  green,  the  one  really  like  moss,  the  other 
filiform  and  like  seaweed  ;  and  neither  of  them  is  at  present 
explicable  or  imitable. 

The  inaccuracy  of  the  statements  thus  made  in  so  elaborate 
a  work  on  mineralogy  as  Dana’s,  may,  I  think,  justify  me  in 
asking  the  attention  of  the  Mineralogical  Society  to  the  dis¬ 
tinctions  in  the  forms  of  silica  which  they  will  find  illustrated 
by  the  chosen  examples  from  my  own  collection,  placed  on 
the  table  for  their  inspection.  I  place,  first,  side  by  side, 
No.  1,  the  rudest,  and  No.  7,  the  most  delicate,  conditions  of 
pure  chalcedony ;  the  first,  coarsely  spheroidal,  and  associ¬ 
ated  with  common  flint ;  the  second,  filiform,  its  threads  and 
rods  combining  into  plates, — each  rod,  on  close  examination, 
being  seen  to  consist  of  associated  spheroidal  concretions. 

Next  to  these  I  place  No.  2,  a  common  small-globed  chal¬ 
cedony  formed  on  the  common  quartzite  of  South  England, 
with  opaque  concentric  zones  developing  themselves  subse¬ 
quently  over  its  translucent  masses.  I  have  not  the  slightest 
idea  how  any  of  these  three  specimens  can  have  been  formed, 
and  simply  lay  them  before  the  Society  in  hope  of  receiving 
some  elucidatory  suggestions  about  them. 

My  ignorance  need  not  have  remained  so  abject,  had  my 
other  work  left  me  leisure  to  follow  out  the  deeply  interest¬ 
ing  experiments  instituted  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Pankhurst  and  Mr. 


116 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


J.  I’ Anson,  of  which  the  first  results,  being  indeed  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  the  true  history  of  silica,  were  published  by  those 
gentlemen  in  the  Mineralogical  Magazine  for  1882,  I  have 
laid  their  paper,  kindly  then  communicated  to  me,  on  the 
table,  for  immediate  comparison  of  its  plates  with  the  speci¬ 
mens,  and  I  have  arranged  the  first  two  groups  of  these, 
adopting  from  that  paper  the  terms  exogenous  and  endogen¬ 
ous,  for  the  two  great  families  of  agates,  so  as  to  illustrate 
the  principal  statements  made  in  its  pages. 

It  would  materially  facilitate  the  pursuit  of  their  discov¬ 
eries  if  some  of  the  members  of  the  Society  would  register 
and  describe  the  successive  phenomena  of  crystallization  in 
any  easily  soluble  or  fusible  minerals.  The  history  of  a  min¬ 
eral  is  not  given  by  ascertainment  of  the  number  or  the  an¬ 
gles  of  the  i^anes  Gf  its  crystals,  but  by  ascertaining  the 
manner  in  which  those  crystals  originate,  increase,  and  asso¬ 
ciate.  The  ordinary  mineralogist  is  content  to  tell  us  that 
gold,  silver,  and  diamond  are  all  cubic  ; — it  is  for  the  miner¬ 
alogist  of  the  future  to  say  why  gold  associates  its  countless 
cubes  into  arborescent  laminm,  and  silver  into  capillary 
wreaths  ;  while  diamond  condemns  its  every  octahedron  to 
monastic  life,  and  never,  except  by  accident,  permits  one  of 
them  to  crystallize  beside  another. 

At  pages  5  and  6  of  Mr.  J.  I’ Anson’s  paper  will  be  found 
explanations,  more  or  less  complete,  of  the  forms  which  I 
have  called  folded  “  agates  ”  and  “  lake  ”  agates,  reaching  to 
No.  40.  The  specimens  from  40  to  60  then  illustrate  the 
conditions  of  siliceous  action  which  I  am  still  alone  among 
modern  mineralogists  in  my  mode  of  interpreting. 

The  minor  points  of  debate  concerning  them  are  stated  in 
the  descriptions  of  each  in  the  catalogue  ;  but  there  are  some 
examples  among  them  from  which  branch  lines  of  observa¬ 
tion  leading  far  beyond  the  history  of  siliceous  pebbles.  To 
these  I  venture  here  to  direct  your  special  attention. 

No.  3  is  a  fragment  of  black  flint  on  which  blue  chalcedony 
is  deposited  as  a  film  extending  itself  in  circles,  exactly  like 
the  growth  of  some  lichens.  I  have  never  seen  this  form  of 
chalcedony  solidify  from  circles  into  globes,  and  it  is  evident 


IN  MONTI  BUS  SANCTIS. 


117 


that  for  this  condition  we  must  use  the  term  “  cycloidal,”  in¬ 
stead  of  “  spheroidal.”  I  need  not  point  out  that  “  reniform  ” 
would  be  here  entirely  absurd. 

This  apparently  common  specimen  (and,  as  far  as  regards 
frequency  of  occurrence,  indeed  common  enough)  is  never¬ 
theless  one  of  the  most  profoundly  instructive  of  the  whole 
series.  It  is,  to  begin  with,  a  perfect  type  of  the  finest  possi¬ 
ble  flint,  properly  so  called.  Its  surface,  eminently  charac¬ 
teristic  of  the  forms  of  flint-concretion,  is  literally  a  white 
dust  of  organic  fragments,  while  the  narrow  fissure  which  has 
opened  in  it,  apparently  owing  to  the  contraction  of  its  mass, 
is  besprinkled  and  studded,  as  closely,  with  what  might  not 
unfitly  be  called  pearl-chalcedony,  or  seed-chalcedony,  or 
hail-chalcedony  ;  for  seen  through  the  lens  it  exactly  resem¬ 
bles  the  grains  of  minute  hail,  sticking  together  as  they  melt ; 
in  places,  forming  very  solid  crests — in  others,  and  especially 
in  the  rifted  fissure,  stalactites,  possibly  more  or  less  vertical 
to  the  plane  in  which  the  flint  lay. 

In  No.  5  the  separation  into  concentric  films  is  a  condition 
peculiar  to  flint-chalcedony,  and  never  found  in  true  agates. 

In  No.  6  (chalcedony  in  stalactitic  coats,  on  amethyst)  the 
variation  of  the  stalactites  in  direction,  and  their  modes  of 
agglutination,  are  alike  unintelligible. 

No.  8  is  only  an  ordinary  specimen  of  chalcedony  on 
haematite,  in  short,  closely  combined  vertical  stalactites,  each 
with  a  central  stalactite  of  black  iron-oxide  ;  but  it  is  to  be 
observed,  in  comparing  it  with  No.  G,  that  when  chalcedony 
is  thus  formed  on  rods  of  haematite,  the  stalactites  are  almost 
unexceptionally  vertical,  and  quite  straight.  The  radiate 
ridge  at  one  side  of  this  example  is,  however,  entirely  anoma¬ 
lous. 

No.  9.  The  succeeding  specimen,  though  small,  is  a  notable 
one,  consisting  of  extremely  minute  and  delicate  shells  or 
crusts  of  spheroidal  haematite,  establishing  themselves  in  the 
heart  of  quartz.  I  have  no  idea  of  the  method,  or  successions 
in  time,  of  this  process.  These  I  leave  to  the  consideration 
of  the  Society,  but  I  point  to  the  specimen  as  exquisitely  ex¬ 
hibiting  the  laws  of  true  spheroidal  crystallization,  in  a  min- 


118 


IN  MONT  I  BUS  SANCTIS. 


eral  which  both  in  its  massive  and  crystalline  state  is  continu¬ 
ally  associated  with  quartz.  And  it  cannot  but  be  felt  that 
this  spheroidal  structure  of  haematite  could  as  little  be  ex¬ 
plained  by  calling  or  supposing  it  a  mixture  of  micaceous 
haematite  with  amorphous  haematite,  as  that  of  chalcedony  by 
calling  it  a  mixture  of  hexagonal  with  amorphous  quartz. 

No.  10.  Next  follows  a  beautiful  and  perfectly  character¬ 
istic  example  of  massively  spheroidal  agate,  in  which  first 
gray  and  then  white  chalcedony,  peculiarly  waved  and  faulted 
by  a  tendency  to  become  quartz,  surrounds  earthy  centres, 
and  is  externally  coated  with  pure  quartz.  And  here  I  must 
ask  the  Society  to  ratify  for  me  the  general  law,  that  in  all 
solid  globular  or  stalactitic  conditions  of  chalcedony,  if  any 
foreign  substance  occurs  mixed  with  them,  it  is  thrown  to 
their  centres,  while  the  pure  quartz  is  always  found  on  the 
outside.*  On  the  other  hand,  the  usual  condition  of  geodes 
of  chalcedony  found  in  the  cavities  of  rocks,  is  to  purify 
themselves  toward  the  interior,  and  either  coat  themselves 
with  quartz  on  the  interior  surface,  or  entirely  fill  the  central 
cavity  with  quartz. 

No.  46  is  a  most  literally  amygdaloidal — almond-shaped — 
mass  of  silica  ;  only,  not  poured  into  an  almond-shaped  cav¬ 
ity  in  basalt,  but  gathered  into  a  knot  out  of  Jurassic  lime¬ 
stone,  as  flint  is  out  of  chalk. 

It  is,  however,  banded  quite  otherwise  than  flint,  the  bands 
giving  occasion  to  its  form,  and  composed  of  different  sub¬ 
stances.  Whereas  those  of  flint  are  of  the  flint  itself  in  dif¬ 
ferent  states,  and  always  independent  of  external  form. 

Secondly.  It  seems  to  me  a  question  of  considerable  inter¬ 
est,  why  the  coarse  substance  of  flint  and  of  this  dull  horn- 
stone  can  be  stained  with  black,  but  not  chalcedony,  nor 
quartz.  The  blackest  so-called  quartz  is  only  a  clear  umber, 
and  opaque  quartz  is  never  so  stained  at  all.  Natural  black 
onyx  is  of  extreme  rarity,  the  onyx  of  commerce  being  arti¬ 
ficially  stained  ;  the  black  band  in  the  lake  agate,  No.  32,  is 


*  It  is  to  be  noticed  also  tliat  often  in  stalactitic  or  tubular  concre¬ 
tions  the  purest  chalcedony  immediately  surrounds  the  centre. 


IN  MON  Tin  US  SANCTIS. 


119 


probably  bituminous.  And  in  connection  with  this  part  of 
the  inquiry,  it  seems  to  be  the  peculiar  duty  of  the  mineralo¬ 
gist  to  explain  the  gradual  darkening  of  the  limestones  tow¬ 
ard  the  central  metamorpliic  chains. 

Thirdly,  and  principally.  This  stone  gives  us  an  example 
of  waved  or  contorted  strata  which  are  unquestionably  pro¬ 
duced  by  concretion  and  partial  crystallization,  not  compres¬ 
sion,  or  any  kind  of  violence.  I  shall  take  occasion,  in  con¬ 
cluding,  to  insist  farther  on  the  extreme  importance  of  this 
character. 

The  specimen  was  found  by  my  good  publisher,  Mr.  Allen, 
on  the  southern  slope  of  the  Saleve  ;  and  it  is  extremely  de¬ 
sirable  that  geologists  in  Savoy  should  obtain  and  describe 
more  pebbles  of  the  same  sort,  this  one  being,  as  far  as  my 
knowledge  goes,  hitherto  unique. 

71-77.  These  seven  examples  of  opal  have  been  chosen 
merely  to  illustrate  farther  the  modes  of  siliceous  solution 
and  segregation,  not  with  that  of  illustrating  opal  itself, — 
every  one  of  the  seven  examples  presenting  phenomena  more 
or  less  unusual.  The  two  larger  blocks,  71,  72  (Australian), 
give  examples  in  one  or  two  places  of  obscurely  nodular  and 
hollow  concretion,  before  unknown  in  opal,  but  of  which  a 
wonderful  specimen,  partly  with  a  vitreous  superficial  glaze, 
has  been  sent  me  by  Mr.  Henry  Willett,  of  Arnold  House, 
Brighton,  a  most  accurate  investigator  of  the  history  of  silica. 
It  is  to  be  carefully  noted,  however,  that  the  moment  the 
opal  shows  a  tendency  to  nodular  concretion,  its  colors 
vanish. 

No.  73  is  sent  only  as  an  example  of  the  normal  state  of 
Australian  opal,  disseminated  in  a  rock  of  which  it  seems 
partly  to  have  opened  for  itself  the  shapeless  spaces  it  fills. 
In  No.  71,  it  may  be  observed,  there  is  a  tendency  in  them  to 
become  tabular.  No.  74,  an  apparently  once  fluent  state  of 
opal  in  veins,  shows  in  perfection  the  arrangement  in  straight 
zones  transverse  to  the  vein,  which  I  pointed  out  in  my  earl¬ 
iest  papers  on  silica  as  a  constant  distinctive  character  in 
opal-crystallization.  No.  75  is  the  only  example  I  ever  saw 
of  stellar  crystallization  in  opal.  No.  7G,  from  the  samo 


120 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANG T IS. 


locality,  is  like  a  lake  agate  associated  witli  a  brecciate  con¬ 
dition  of  the  gangue  ;  while  No.  77,  though  small,  will  be 
found  an  extremely  interesting  example  of  hydrophane.  The 
blue  bloom  seen  in  some  lights  on  it,  when  dry,  as  opposed 
to  the  somewhat  vulgar  vivacity  of  its  colors  when  wet,  is  a 
perfect  example  of  the  opal’s  faculty  of  selecting  for  its  lustre 
the  most  lovely  combinations  of  the  separated  rays.  A 
diamond,  or  a  piece  of  fissured  quartz,  reflects  indiscrimin¬ 
ately  all  the  colors  of  the  prism  ;  an  opal,  only  those  which 
are  most  delightful  to  human  sight  and  mental  association. 

78-80.  These  three  geological  specimens  are  placed  at  the 
term  of  the  series,  that  the  importance  of  the  structure 
already  illustrated  by  No.  46  may  be  finally  represented  to 
the  Society  ;  No.  46  being  an  undulated  chalcedony  ;  No.  78 
an  undulated  jasper  ;  No.  79,  a  hornstone  ;  and  No.  80  a  fully 
developed  gneiss. 

I  have  no  hesitation  in  affirming, — though  it  is  not  usual 
with  me  to  affirm  anything  I  have  not  seen,  and  seen  close, — 
that  every  one  of  these  types  of  undulated  structure  has  been 
produced  by  crystallization  only,  and  absolutely  without  com¬ 
pression  or  violence.  But  the  transition  from  the  contorted 
gneiss  which  has  been  formed  by  crystallization  only,  to  that 
which  has  been  subjected  to  the  forces  of  upheaval,  or  of 
lateral  compression,  is  so  gradual  and  so  mysterious,  that  all 
the  chemistry  and  geology  of  modern  science  is  hitherto  at 
fault  in  its  explanation  ;  and  this  meeting  would  confer  a 
memorable  benefit  on  future  observers  by  merely  determining 
for  them  the  conditions  of  the  problem.  Up  to  a  certain 
point,  however,  these  were  determined  by  Saussure,  from 
whose  frequent  and  always  acutely  distinct  descriptions  of 
contorted  rocks  I  select  the  following,  because  it  refers  to  a 
scene  of  which  the  rock  structure  was  a  subject  of  constant 
interest  to  the  painter  Turner  ;  the  ravine,  namely,  by  which, 
on  the  Italian  side  of  the  St.  Gothard,  the  Ticino  escapes 
from  the  valley  of  Airolo. 

“At  a  league  from  Faido  the  traveller  ascends  by  a  road 
carried  on  a  cornice  above  the  Ticino,  which  precipitates  itself 
between  the  rocks  with  the  greatest  violence.  I  made  the 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


121 


ascent  on  foot,  in  order  to  examine  with  care  the  beautiful 
rocks,  worthy  of  all  the  attention  of  a  rock-lover.  The  veins 
of  that  granite  form  in  many  places  redoubled  zigzags,  pre¬ 
cisely  like  the  ancient  tapestries  known  as  point  of  Hungary, 
and  there  it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  the  veins  of  the 
stone  are,  or  are  not,  parallel  to  the  beds ;  while  finally  I  ob¬ 
served  several  beds  which  in  the  middle  of  their  thickness 
appeared  filled  with  veins  in  zigzag,  while  near  their  borders 
they  were  arranged  all  in  straight  lines.  This  observation 
proves  that  the  zig-zags  are  the  effect  of  crystallization,  and 
not  that  of  a  compression  of  the  beds  when  they  were  in  a 
state  of  softness.  In  effect,  the  middle  of  a  bed  could  not  be 
pushed  together  (‘refoule  ’)  unless  the  upper  and  lower  parts 
of  it  were  pushed  at  the  same  time.” 

This  conclusive  remark  of  Saussure  renders  debate  impos¬ 
sible  respecting  the  cause  of  the  contortions  of  gneiss  on  a 
small  scale  ;  and  a  very  few  experiments  with  clay,  dough,  or 
any  other  ductile  substance,  such  as  those  of  which  I  have 
figured  the  results  in  the  Vltli  plate  of  “  Deucalion,”  will 
prove,  what  otherwise  is  evident  on  sufficient  reflection,  that 
minutely  rh}7thmic  undulations  of  beds  cannot  be  obtained 
by  compression  on  a  large  scale.  But  I  am  myself  prepared 
to  go  much  farther  than  this.  During  half  a  century  of 
various  march  among  the  Alps,  I  never  saw  the  gneiss  yet, 
which  I  could  believe  to  have  been  wrinkled  by  pressure,  and 
so  far  am  I  disposed  to  carry  this  denial  of  external  force, 
that  I  live  in  hopes  of  hearing  the  Matterhorn  itself,  whose 
contorted  beds  I  engraved  thirty  years  ago  in  the  fourth 
volume  of  “  Modern  Painters  ”  (the  book  is  laid  on  the  table, 
open  at  the  plate),  pronounced  bjr  the  Mmeralogical  Society 
to  be  nothing  else  than  a  large  gneissitic  crystal,  curiously 
cut ! 

Whether  this  hope  be  vain  or  not,  I  believe  it  will  soon  be 
felt  by  the  members  of  this  Society,  that  an  immense  field  of 
observation  is  opened  to  them  by  recent  chemistry,  peculiarly 
their  own:  and  that  mineralogy,  instead  of  being  merely  the 
servant  of  geology,  must  be  utimately  her  guide.  No  move¬ 
ment  of  rocks  on  a  large  scale  can  ever  be  explained  until  wo 


122 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


understand  rightly  the  formation  of  a  quartz  vein,  and  the 
growth,  to  take  the  most  familiar  of  fusible  minerals,  of  an 
ice-crystal.* 

And  I  would  especially  plead  with  the  younger  members  of 
the  Society,  that  they  should  quit  the-mselves  of  the  idea  that 
they  need  large  laboratories,  fine  microscopes,  or  rare  min¬ 
erals,  for  the  effective  pursuit  of  their  science.  A  quick  eye, 
a  candid  mind,  and  an  earnest  heart,  are  all  the  microscopes 
and  laboratories  which  any  of  us  need  ;  and  with  a  little  clay, 
sand,  salt,  and  sugar  a  man  may  find  out  more  of  the  methods 
of  geological  phenomenon  than  ever  were  known  to  Sir 
Charles  Lyell.  Of  the  interest  and  entertainment  of  such 
unpretending  science  I  hope  the  children  of  this  generation 
may  know  more  than  their  fathers,  and  that  the  study  of  the 
Earth,  which  hitherto  has  shown  them  little  more  than  the 
monsters  of  a  chaotic  past,  may  at  last  interpret  for  them  the 
beautiful  work  of  the  creative  present,  and  lead  them  day  by 
day  to  find  a  loveliness,  till  then  unthought  of,  in  the  rock, 
and  a  value,  till  then  uncounted,  in  the  gem. 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CHAPTER  I. 

I  believe  that  one  of  the  causes  which  has  prevented  my  writings  on 
subjects  of  science  from  obtaining  the  influence  with  the  public  which 
they  have  accorded  to  those  on  art,  though  precisely  the  same  faculties 
of  eye  and  mind  are  concerned  in  the  analysis  of  natural  and  of  picto¬ 
rial  forms,  may  have  been  my  constant  practice  of  teaching  by  question 
rather  than  assertion.  So  far  as  I  am  able,  I  will  henceforward  mend 
this  fault  as  I  best  may  ;  beginning  here  with  the  assertion  of  the  four 
facts  for  which,  being  after  long  observation  convinced  of  them,  I  claim 
now,  as  I  said  in  the  Preface,  the  dignity  of  Discoveries. 

I.  That  a  large  number  of  agates,  and  other  siliceous  substances, 
hitherto  supposed  to  be  rolled  pebbles  in  a  conglomerate  paste,  are  in 
truth  crystalline  secretions  out  of  that  paste  in  situ,  as  garnets  out  of 
mica-slate. 

II.  That  a  large  number  of  agates,  hitherto  supposed  to  be  formed  by 


*  A  translation  into  English  of  Dr.  Schumacher’s  admirable  essay,  Die 
Krystallisation  des  Eises,  Leipzig,  1844,  is  extremely  desirable. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


123 


broken  fragments  of  older  agate,  cemented  by  a  gelatinous  chalcedony, 
are  indeed  secretions  out  of  a  siliceous  fluid  containing  miscellaneous 
elements,  and  their  apparent  fractures  are  indeed  produced  by  the 
same  kind  of  tranquil  division  which  terminates  the  bands  in  banded 
flints. 

III.  That  the  contortions  in  gneiss  and  other  metamorphic  rocks,  con¬ 
stantly  ascribed  by  geologists  to  pressure,  are  only  modes  of  crytalliza- 
tion. 

And  IV.  That  many  of  the  faults  and  contortions  produced  on  a  large 
scale  in  metamorphic  rocks  are  owing  to  the  quiet  operation  of  similar 
causes. 

These  four  principles,  as  aforesaid,  I  have  indeed  worked  out  and 
discovered  for  myself,  not  in  hasty  rivalry  with  other  mineralogists, 
but  continually  laying  before  them  what  evidence  I  had  noted,  and 
praying  them  to  carry  forward  the  inquiry  themselves.  Finding  they 
would  not,  I  have  given  much  time  this  year  to  the  collection  of  the 
data  in  my  journals,  and  to  the  arrangement  of  various  collections  of 
siliceous  and  metallic  minerals,  illustrating  such  phenomena,  of  which 
the  primary  one  is  that  just  completed  and  catalogued  in  the  British 
Museum  (Nat.  Hist.),  instituting  there,  by  the  permission  of  the  Trus¬ 
tees,  the  description  of  specimens  by  separate  numbers  ;  the  next  in 
importance  is  that  at  St.  George’s  Museum  in  Sheffield  ;  the  third  is  one 
which  I  presented  this  spring  to  the  Museum  of  Kirkcudbright ;  the 
fourth  that  placed  at  St.  David’s  School,  Beigate  ;  and  a  fifth  is  in 
course  of  arrangement  for  the  Mechanics’  Institute  here  at  Coniston  ; 
the  sixth,  described  in  the  preceding  chapter,  may  probably,  with  some 
modification,  be  placed  at  Edinburgh,  but  remains  for  the  present  at 
Brantwood,  with  unchanged  numbers. 

The  six  catalogues  describing  these  collections  will  enable  any  stu¬ 
dent  to  follow  out  the  history  of  siliceous  minerals  with  reference  to  the 
best  possible  cabinet  examples  ;  but  for  a  guide  to  their  localities  and 
the  modes  of  their  occurrence,  he  will  find  the  following  extracts  from 
Pinkerton’s  “  Tetralogy, ”  *  more  useful  than  anything  in  modem 
books;  and  I  am  entirely  happy  to  find  that  my  above-claimed  disoo\- 
eries  were  all  anticipated  by  him,  and  are,  by  his  close  descriptions,  in 
all  points  confirmed.  His  general  term  “  Glutenites,  for  stones  ap¬ 
parently  formed  of  cemented  fragments,  entirely  deserves  restoration 
and  future  acceptance. 

“The  division  of  glutenites  into  bricias  and  pudding-stones,  the 
former  consisting  of  angular  fragments,  the  latter  of  round  or  oval  pel>- 


*  Two  vols.  8vo,  Cochrane  &  Co.,  Fleet  Street,  1811.  A  quite  invaluable 
book  for  clearness  of  description,  usefulness  of  suggestion,  and  extent  of  geog¬ 
nostic  reference.  It  has  twenty  beautiful  little  vignettes  also,  which  aio 
models  of  steel  engraving. 


124 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


bles,  would  not  be  unadvisable,  were  it  in  strict  conformity  with  nat¬ 
ure.  But  there  are  many  rocks  of  this  kind  ;  as,  for  example,  the 
celebrated  Egyptian  bricia,  in  which  the  fragments  are  partly  round 
and  partly  angular  ;  while  the  term  glutenite  is  liable  to  no  such  objec¬ 
tions,  and  the  several  structures  identify  the  various  substances. 

“  The  celebrated  English  pudding-stone,  found  nowhere  in  the  world 
but  in  Hertfordshire,  appears  to  me  to  be  rather  an  original  rock, 
formed  in  the  manner  of  amygdalites,  because  the  pebbles  do  not  seem 
to  have  been  rolled  by  water,  which  would  have  worn  off  the  substances 
in  various  directions ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  the  white,  black,  brown, 
or  red  circlets  are  always  entire,  and  parallel  with  the  surface,  like 
those  of  agates.  Pebbles,  therefore,  instead  of  being  united  to  form 
such  rocks,  may,  in  many  circumstances,  proceed  from  their  decompo¬ 
sition ;  the  circumjacent  sand  also  arising  from  the  decomposition  of 
the  cement. 

“  Mountains  or  regions  of  real  glutenite  often,  however,  accompany 
the  skirts  of  extensive  chains  of  mountains,  as  on  the  northwest  and 
southeast  sides  of  the  Grampian  Mountains  in  Scotland,  in  which  in¬ 
stance  the  cement  is  affirmed  by  many  travellers  to  be  ferruginous,  or 
sometimes  argillaceous.  The  largeness  or  minuteness  of  the  pebbles  or 
particles  cannot  be  said  to  alter  the  nature  of  the  substance  ;  so  that  a 
fine  sandstone  is  also  a  glutenite,  if  viewed  by  the  microscope.  They 
may  be  divided  into  two  structures  :  the  large-grained,  comprising  bri- 
cias  and  pudding-stones  ;  and  the  small-grained,  or  sandstones. 

“  At  Dunstallnage,  in  Scotland,*  romantic  rocks  of  a  singularly  abrupt 
appearance,  in  some  parts  resembling  walls,  are  formed  by  glutenite, 
in  which  the  kernels  consist  of  white  quartz,  with  green  or  black  trap 
porphyries,  and  basalts. 

“  In  the  glutenite  from  the  south  of  the  Grampians,  from  Aj^rshire, 
from  Inglestone  Bridge,  on  the  road  between  Edinburgh  and  Lanark, 
the  cement  is  often  siliceous,  as  in  those  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps  ob¬ 
served  by  Saussure. 

“Another  glutenite  consists  of  fragments  of  granite,  cemented  by 
trap. 

“  Siderous  glutenite,  or  pudding-stone  of  the  most  modern  formation, 
is  formed  around  cannon,  pistols,  and  other  instruments  of  iron,  by 
the  sand  of  the  sea. 

“  Glutenite  of  small  quartz  pebbles,  in  a  red  ferruginous  cement,  is 
found  in  the  coal  mines  near  Bristol,  etc. 

“  Porphvritic  bricia  {Linn,  a  Gmelin ,  247),  from  Dalecarlia  in  Sweden, 
and  Saxony.  Calton-hill,  Edinburgh  ? 


*  For  convenience  in  quotation,  I  occasionally  alter  Pinkerton’s  phrases — 
but,  it  will  be  found  by  reference  to  the  original,  without  the  slightest  change 
in,  or  loss  of,  their  meaning. 


IN  MONTIBIfS  SANCTIS. 


125 


“The  entirely  siliceous  glutenites  will  comprehend  many  important 
substances  of  various  structures,  from  the  celebrated  Egyptian  bricia, 
containing  large  pebbles  of  jasper,  granite,  and  porphyry,  to  the  silice¬ 
ous  sandstone  of  Stonehenge.  These  glutenites  are  of  various  forma¬ 
tions  ;  and  the  pudding-stone  of  England  would  rather  seem,  as  already 
mentioned,  to  be  an  original  rock,  the  pebbles  or  rather  kernels  having 
no  appearance  of  having  been  rolled  in  water.  Patrin*  has  expressed 
the  same  idea  concerning  those  pudding-stones  which  so  much  embar¬ 
rassed  Saussure,  as  he  found  their  beds  in  a  vertical  position,  while  he 
argues  that  they  could  only  have  been  formed  on  a  horizontal  level. 
This  curious  question  might,  as  would  seem,  be  easily  decided  by  ex¬ 
amining  if  the  kernels  have  been  rolled,  or  if,  on  the  contrary,  they 
retain  their  uniform  concentric  tints,  observable  in  the  pudding  stone 
of  England,  and  well  represented  in  the  specimen  which  Patrin  has 
engraved.  But  the  same  idea  had  arisen  to  me  before  I  had  seen 
Patrin’s  ingenious  system  of  mineralogy.  In  like  manner  rocks  now 
universally  admitted  to  consist  of  granular  quartz,  or  that  substance 
crystallized  in  the  form  of  sand,  were  formerly  supposed  to  consist 
of  sand  agglutinated.  Several  primitive  rocks  contain  glands  of 
the  same  substance,  and  that  great  observer,  Saussure,  has  called 
them  Glandulites,  an  useful  denomination  when  the  glands  are  of 
the  same  substance  with  the  rock  ;  while  Amygdalites  are  those  rocks 
which  contain  kernels  of  quite  a  different  nature.  He  observes,  that 
in  such  a  rock  a  central  point  of  crystallization  may  attract  the  cir¬ 
cumjacent  matter  into  a  round  or  oval  form,  perfectly  defined  and  dis¬ 
tinct  ;  while  other  parts  of  the  substance,  having  no  point  of  attraction, 
may  coalesce  into  a  mass.  The  agency  of  iron  may  also  be  suspected, 
that  metal,  as  appears  from  its  ores,  often  occurring  in  detached  round 
and  oval  forms  of  many  sizes,  and  even  a  small  proportion  having  a 
great  power. 

“  On  the  other  hand,  many  kinds  of  pudding-stone  consist  merely  of 
rounded  pebbles.  Saussure  describes  the  Bigiberg,  near  the  lake  of 
Lucerne,  a  mountain  not  less  than  5,800  feet  in  height  above  the  sea, 
and  said  to  be  eight  leagues  in  circumference,  which  consists  entirely 
of  rolled  pebbles,  and  among  them  some  of  pudding-stone,  probably 
original,  disposed  in  regular  layers,  and  embedded  in  a  calcareous  ce¬ 
ment.  The  pudding  rocks  around  the  great  lake  Baikal,  in  the  centre 
of  Asia,  present  the  same  phenomenon  ;  but  it  has  not  been  observed 
whether  the  fragments  be  of  an  original  or  derivative  rock. 

“  The  siliceous  sandstones  form  another  important  division  of  this 
class.  They  may  sometimes,  as  already  mentioned,  be  confounded  with 
granular  quartz,  which  must  be  regarded  as  a  primary  crystallization. 
The  sand,  which  has  also  been  found  in  micaceous  scliistus,  and  at  a 


*  i.,  154. 


125 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


vast  depth  in  many  mines,  may  be  well  regarded  as  belonging  to  this 
formation  ;  for  it  is  well  known  that,  if  the  crystallization  be  much 
disturbed,  the  substance  will  descend  in  small  irregular  particles. 

“  Siliceous  sandstones  are  far  more  uncommon  than  the  calcareous  or 
argillaceous.  The  limits  of  the  chalk  country  in  England  are  singularly 
marked  by  large  masses  of  siliceous  sandstone,  irregularly  dispersed. 
Those  of  Stonehenge  afford  remarkable  examples  of  the  size  and  nature 
of  those  fragments,  but  the  original  rock  has  not  been  discovered. 
Trap  or  basaltin  often  reposes  on  siliceous  sandstone. 

“But  the  most  eminent  and  singular  pudding-stones  are  those  oc¬ 
curring  in  Egypt,  in  the  celebrated  bricia  of  the  Valley  of  Cosseir,  and 
in  the  siliceous  bricia  of  the  same  chain,  in  which  are  embedded  those 
curious  pebbles  known  by  the  name  of  Egyptian  jasper;  and  which 
also  sometimes  contain  agates.  Bricias,  with  red  jasper,  also  occur  in 
France,  Switzerland,  and  other  countries ;  but  the  cement  is  friable, 
and  they  seldom  take  a  good  polish.  All  these  rocks  present  both 
round  and  angular  fragments,  which  shows  that  the  division  into 
bricias  and  pudding-stones  cannot  be  accepted  :  a  better  division,  when 
properly  ascertained,  would  be  into  original  and  derivative  glutenites. 
In  a  geological  point  of  view,  the  most  remarkable  pudding-stones, 
which  might  more  classically  be  called  Kollanites,  from  the  Greek,* 
are  those  which  border  the  chains  of  primitive  mountains,  as  already 
mentioned.  The  English  Hertfordshire  pudding-stone  is  unique,  and 
beautiful  specimens  are  highly  valued  in  France,  and  other  countries. 
It  is  certainly  an  original  rock,  arising  from  a  peculiar  crystallization, 
being  composed  of  round  and  oval  kernels  of  a  red,  yellow,  brown,  or 
gray  tint,  in  a  base  consisting  of  particles  of  the  same,  united  by  a  silf 
ceous  cement. 

“Of  small-grained  argillaceous  glutenite,  the  most  celebrated  rock  i3 
the  Grison,  or  Bergmanite,  just  mentioned,  being  composed  of  grains 
of  sand,  various  in  size,  sometimes  even  kernels  of  quartz ;  which, 
with  occasional  bits  of  hard  clay  slate,  are  embedded  in  an  argillaceous 
cement,  of  the  nature  of  common  gray  clay  slate.  When  the  particles 
are  very  fine,  it  assumes  the  slaty  structure,  and  forms  the  grauwack 
slate  of  the  Germans.  It  is  the  chief  of  Werner’s  transitive  rocks, 
nearly  approaching  to  the  primitive  ;  while  at  the  same  time  it  some¬ 
times  contains  shells  and  other  petrifactions. 

“This  important  rock  was  formerly  considered  as  being  almost  pe¬ 
culiar  to  the  Ilartz,  where  it  contains  the  richest  mines  ;  but  has  since 
been  observed  in  many  other  countries.  The  slaty  grison,  or  Bergman¬ 
ite,  has  been  confounded  with  a  clay  slate,  and  we  are  obliged  to  Mr. 
Jameson  for  the  following  distinctions:  1.  It  is  commonly  of  a  bluish, 


*  IvoAAa,  cement ;  the  more  proper,  as  it  also  implies  iron,  often  the 
chief  agent. 


IN  MONTIBVS  SANCTIS. 


127 


ash,  or  smoke  gray,  and  rarely  presents  the  greenish  or  light  yellowish- 
gray  color  of  primitive  clay  slate.  2.  Its  lustre  is  sometimes  glimmer¬ 
ing  from  specks  of  mica,  but  it  never  shows  the  silky  lustre  of  clay 
slate.  3.  It  never  presents  siderite  nor  garnets.  4.  It  alternates  with 
massive  grauwack.  But  is  not  the  chief  distinction  its  aspect  of  a  sand¬ 
stone,  which  has  led  to  the  trivial  French  name  of  gres-gris,  and  the 
English  rubble-stone ,  which  may  imply  that  it  was  formed  of  rubbed 
fragments,  or  of  the  rubbish  of  other  rocks  ?  The  fracture  is  also  differ¬ 
ent  ;  and  three  specimens  of  various  fineness,  which  I  received  from 
Daubuisson,  at  Paris,  could  never  be  confounded  with  clay  slate. 

“This  rock  is  uncommonly  productive  of  metals,  not  only  in  beds 
but  also  in  veins,  which  latter  are  frequently  of  great  magnitude.  Thus 
almost  the  whole  of  the  mines  in  the  Hartz  are  situated  in  greywack. 
These  mines  afford  principally  argentiferous  lead-glance,  which  is  usu¬ 
ally  accompanied  with  blend,  fahl  ore,  black  silver  ore,  and  copper 
pyrites.  A  more  particular  examination  discloses  several  distinct  veni- 
genous  formations  that  traverse  the  mountains  of  the  Hartz.  The  grey¬ 
wack  of  the  Saxon  Erzgebirge,  of  the  Rhine  at  Rheinbreidenbach, 
Andernach,  etc.,  of  Leogang  in  Salzburg,  is  rich  in  ores,  particularly 
those  of  lead  and  copper.  At  Vorospatak  and  Facebay,  in  Transylvania, 
the  greywack  is  traversed  by  numerous  small  veins  of  gold.” 

These  passages  from  Pinkerton,  with  those  translated  at  p.  9  from 
Saussure,  are  enough  to  do  justice  to  the  clear  insight  of  old  geologists, 
respecting  matters  still  at  issue  among  younger  ones  ;  and  I  must 
therefore  ask  the  reader’s  patience  with  the  hesitating  assertions  in  the 
following  chapters  of  many  points  on  which  a  wider  acquaintance  with 
the  writings  of  the  true  Fathers  of  the  science  might  have  enabled  me 
to  speak  with  grateful  confidence. 


CHAPTER  H. 


THE  DRY  LAND. 

“  Modern  Painters,”  Vol.  IV,  chap.  mi. 

“  And  God  said ,  Let  the  waters  which  are  under  the  heaven 
be  gathered  together  unto  one  place,  and  let  the  dry  land  appear .” 

We  do  not,  perhaps,  often  enough  consider  the  deep  sig¬ 
nificance  of  this  sentence.  We  are  too  apt  to  receive  it  as  the 
description  of  an  event  vaster  only  in  its  extent,  not  in  its 
nature,  than  the  compelling  the  Red  Sea  to  draw  back,  that 
Israel  might  pass  by.  We  imagine  the  Deity  in  like  manner 
rolling  the  waves  of  the  greater  ocean  together  on  an  heap, 
and  setting  bars  and  doors  to  them  eternally. 

But  there  is  a  far  deeper  meaning  than  this  in  the  solemn 
words  of  Genesis,  and  in  the  correspondent  verse  of  the  Psalm, 
“His  hands  prepared  the  dry  land.”  Up  to  that  moment  the 
earth  had  been  void,  for  it  had  been  without  form.  The  com¬ 
mand  that  the  waters  should  be  gathered ,  was  the  command 
that  the  earth  should  be  sculptured.  The  sea  was  not  driven 
to  his  place  in  suddenly  restrained  rebellion,  but  withdrawn 
to  his  place  in  perfect  and  patient  obedience.  The  dry  land 
appeared,  not  in  level  sands,  forsaken  by  the  surges,  which 
those  surges  might  again  claim  for  their  own  ;  but  in  range 
beyond  range  of  swelling  hill  and  iron  rock,  forever  to  claim 
kindred  with  the  firmament,  and  be  companioned  by  the 
clouds  of  heaven. 

2.  What  space  of  time  was  in  reality  occupied  by  the 
“  day  ”  of  Genesis,  is  not,  at  present,  of  any  importance  for 
us  to  consider.  By  what  furnaces  of  fire  the  adamant  was 
melted,  and  by  what  wheels  of  earthquake  it  was  torn,  and  by 


IN  MONTI  BUS  SANCTIS. 


129 


what  teeth  of  glacier  *  and  weight  of  sea-waves  it  was  en¬ 
graven  and  finished  into  its  perfect  form,  we  may  perhaps 
hereafter  endeavor  to  conjecture  ;  but  here,  as  in  few  words 
the  work  is  summed  by  the  historian,  so  in  few  broad  thoughts 
it  should  be  comprehended  by  us  ;  and  as  we  read  the  mighty 
sentence,  “Let  the  dry  land  appear,”  we  should  try  to  follow 
the  finger  of  God,  as  it  engraved  upon  the  stone  tables  of  the 
earth  the  letters  and  the  law  of  its  everlasting  form  ;  as,  gulf 
by  gulf,  the  channels  of  the  deep  were  ploughed ;  and,  cape 
by  cape,  the  lines  were  traced,  with  Divine  foreknowledge,  of 
the  shores  that  were  to  limit  the  nations  ;  and,  chain  by  chain, 
the  mountain  walls  were  lengthened  forth,  and  their  founda¬ 
tions  fastened  for  ever  ;  and  the  compass  was  set  upon  the 
face  of  the  depth,  and  the  fields,  and  the  highest  part  of  the 
dust  of  the  world  were  made  ;  and  the  right  hand  of  Christ 
first  strewed  the  snow  on  Lebanon,  and  smoothed  the  slopes 
of  Calvary. 

3.  It  is  not,  I  repeat,  always  needful,  in  many  respects  it  is 
not  possible,  to  conjecture  the  manner,  or  the  time,  in  which 
this  work  was  done  ;  but  it  is  deeply  necessary  for  all  men 
to  consider  the  magnificence  of  the  accomplished  purpose, 
and  the  depth  of  the  wisdom  and  love  which  are  manifested 
in  the  ordinances  of  the  hills.  For  observe,  in  order  to  bring 
the  world  into  the  form  which  it  now  bears,  it  was  not  mere 
sculpture  that  was  needed ;  the  mountains  could  not  stand 
for  a  day  unless  they  were  formed  of  materials  altogether 
different  from  those  which  constitute  the  lower  hills,  and  the 
surfaces  of  the  valleys.  A  harder  substance  had  to  be  pre¬ 
pared  for  every  mountain  chain  ;  yet  not  so  hard  but  that  it 
might  be  capable  of  crumbling  down  into  earth  fit  to  nourish 
the  Alpine  forest  and  the  Alpine  flower ;  not  so  hard  but 
that,  in  the  midst  of  the  utmost  majesty  of  its  enthroned 
strength,  there  should  be  seen  on  it  the  seal  of  death,  and  the 


*  Though  I  had  already  learned  from  James  Forbes  the  laws  of 
glacier  motion,  I  still  fancied  that  ice  could  drive  embedded  blocks  and 
wear  down  rock  surfaces.  See  for  correction  of  this  error,  Arrows  of 
the  Chase,  vol.  i. ,  pp.  255-273,  and  Deucalion,  passim. 

9 


130 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


writing  of  the  same  sentence  that  had  gone  forth  against  the 
human  frame,  “  Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  thou  slialt  re¬ 
turn.”  *  And  with  this  perishable  substance  the  most  majes¬ 
tic  forms  were  to  be  framed  that  were  consistent  with  the 
safety  of  man  ;  and  the  peak  was  to  be  lifted,  and  the  cliff 
rent,  as  high  and  as  steeply  as  was  possible,  in  order  yet  to 
permit  the  shepherd  to  feed  his  flocks  upon  the  slope,  and 
the  cottage  to  nestle  beneath  their  shadow. 

4.  And  observe,  two  distinct  ends  were  to  be  accomplished 
in  the  doing  this.  It  was,  indeed,  absolutely  necessary  that 
such  eminences  should  be  created,  in  order  to  fit  the  earth  in 
any  wise  for  human  habitation  ;  for  without  mountains  the 
air  could  not  be  purified,  nor  the  flowing  of  the  rivers  sus¬ 
tained,  and  the  earth  must  have  become  for  the  most  part 
desert  plain,  or  stagnant  marsh.  But  the  feeding  of  the  riv¬ 
ers  and  the  purifying  of  the  winds  are  the  least  of  the  services 
appointed  to  the  hills.  To  fill  the  thirst  of  the  human  heart 
for  the  beauty  of  God’s  working — to  startle  its  lethargy  with 
the  deep  and  pure  agitation  of  astonishment — are  their 
higher  missions.  They  are  as  a  great  and  noble  architecture  ; 
first  giving  shelter,  comfort,  and  rest ;  and  covered  also  with 
mighty  sculpture  and  painted  legend.  It  is  impossible  to 
examine  in  their  connected  system  the  features  of  even  the 
most  ordinary  mountain  scenery,  without  concluding  that  it 
has  been  prepared  in  order  to  unite,  as  far  as  possible,  and  in 
the  closest  compass,  every  means  of  delighting  and  sanctify¬ 
ing  the  heart  of  man.  “  As  far  as  possible  ;  ”  that  is,  as  far  as 
is  consistent  with  the  fulfilment  of  the  sentence  of  condem¬ 
nation  on  the  whole  earth.  Death  must  be  upon  the  hills ; 
and  the  cruelty  of  the  tempests  smite  them,  and  the  brier 
and  thorn  spring  up  upon  them  :  but  they  so  smite,  as  to 
bring  their  rocks  into  the  fairest  forms ;  and  so  spring,  as 
to  make  the  very  desert  blossom  as  the  rose.  Even  among 


*  “Surely  tlie  mountain  falling  cometh  to  nought,  and  the  rock  is 
removed  out  of  his  place.  The  waters  wear  the  stones  :  thou  washest 
away  the  things  which  grow  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  thou  de- 
stroyest  the  hope  of  man.1’ — Job  xiv.  18,  19. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


131 


our  own  hills  of  Scotland  and  Cumberland,  though  often  too 
barren  to  be  perfectly  beautiful,  and  always  too  low  to  be 
perfectly  sublime,  it  is  strange  how  many  deep  sources  of  de¬ 
light  are  gathered  into  the  compass  of  their  glens  and  vales ; 
and  how,  down  to  the  most  secret  cluster  of  their  far-away 
flowers,  and  the  idlest  leap  of  their  straying  streamlets,  the 
whole  heart  of  Nature  seems  thirsting  to  give,  and  still  to 
give,  shedding  forth  her  everlasting  beneficence  with  a  pro¬ 
fusion  so  patient,  so  passionate,  that  our  utmost  observance 
and  thankfulness  are  but,  at  last,  neglect  of  her  nobleness, 
and  apathy  to  her  love. 

But  among  the  true  mountains  of  the  greater  orders  the 
Divine  purpose  of  appeal  at  once  to  all  the  faculties  of  the 
human  spirit  becomes  still  more  manifest.  Inferior  hills  or¬ 
dinarily  interrupt,  in  some  degree,  the  richness  of  the  valleys 
at  their  feet  ;  the  gray  downs  of  southern  England,  and  tree¬ 
less  coteaux  of  central  France,  and  gray  swells  of  Scottish 
moor,  whatever  peculiar  charm  they  may  possess  in  themselves, 
are  at  least  destitute  of  those  which  belong  to  the  woods  and 
fields  of  the  lowlands.  But  the  great  mountains  lift  the  low¬ 
lands  on  their  sides.  Let  the  reader  imagine,  first,  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  the  most  varied  plain  of  some  richly  cultivated  coun¬ 
try  ;  let  him  imagine  it  dark  with  graceful  woods,  and  soft 
with  deepest  pastures ;  let  him  fill  the  space  of  it,  to  the  ut¬ 
most  horizon,  with  innumerable  and  changeful  incidents  of 
scenery  and  life  ;  leading  pleasant  streamlets  through  its  mead¬ 
ows,  strewing  clusters  of  cottages  beside  their  banks,  tracing 
sweet  footpaths  through  its  avenues,  and  animating  its  fields 
with  happy  flocks,  and  slow  wandering  spots  of  cattle  ;  and 
when  he  has  wearied  himself  with  endless  imagining,  and  left 
no  space  without  some  loveliness  of  its  own,  let  him  conceive 
all  this  great  plain,  with  its  infinite  treasures  of  natural  beauty 
and  happy  human  life,  gathered  up  in  God’s  hands  from  one 
edge  of  the  horizon  to  the  other,  like  a  woven  garment ;  and 
shaken  into  deep  falling  folds,  as  the  robes  droop  from  a  king’s 
shoulders  ;  all  its  bright  rivers  leaping  into  cataracts  along  the 
hollows  of  its  fall,  and  all  its  forests  rearing  themselves  aslant 
against  its  slopes,  as  a  rider  rears  himself  back  when  his  hors® 


132 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


plunges  ;  and  all  its  villages  nestling  themselves  into  the  new 
windings  of  its  glens  ;  and  all  its  pastures  thrown  into  steep 
waves  of  greensward,  dashed  with  dew  along  the  edges  of  their 
folds,  and  sweeping  down  into  endless  slopes,  with  a  cloud 
here  and  there  lying  quietly,  half  on  the  grass,  half  in  the  air  ; 
and  he  will  have  as  yet,  in  all  this  lifted  world,  only  the  foun¬ 
dation  of  one  of  the  great  Alps.  And  whatever  is  lovely  in 
the  lowland  scenery  becomes  lovelier  in  this  change  :  the  trees 
which  grew  heavily  and  stiffly  from  the  level  line  of  plain 
assume  strange  curves  of  strength  and  grace  as  they  bend 
themselves  against  the  mountain  side  ;  they  breathe  more 
freely,  and  toss  their  branches  more  carelessly  as  each  climbs 
higher,  looking  to  the  clear  light  above  the  topmost  leaves  of 
its  brother  tree  :  the  flowers  which  on  the  arable  plain  fell 
before  the  plough,  now  find  out  for  themselves  unapproacha¬ 
ble  places,  where  year  by  year  they  gather  into  happier  fel¬ 
lowship,  and  fear  no  evil  ;  and  the  streams  which  in  the 
level  land  crept  in  dark  eddies  by  unwholesome  banks,  now 
move  in  showers  of  silver,  and  are  clothed  with  rainbows, 
and  bring  health  and  life  wherever  the  glance  of  their  waves 
can  reach. 

5.  And  although  this  beauty  seems  at  first,  in  its  wildness, 
inconsistent  with  the  service  of  man,  it  is  in  fact  more  neces¬ 
sary  to  his  happy  existence  than  all  the  level  and  easily  subdued 
land  which  he  rejoices  to  possess.  It  seems  almost  an  insult 
to  the  reader’s  intelligence  to  ask  him  to  dwell  (as  if  they  could 
be  doubted)  on  the  uses  of  the  hills,  and  yet  so  little  until 
lately  have  those  uses  been  understood  that,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  one  of  the  most  enlightened  of  the  religious  men  of 
his  day  (Fleming),  himself  a  native  of  a  mountain  country, 
casting  about  for  some  reason  to  explain  to  himself  the  exist¬ 
ence  of  mountains,  and  prove  their  harmony  with  the  provi¬ 
dential  government  of  creation,  can  light  upon  this  reason 
only,  “They  are  inhabited  by  the  beasts.” 

6.  It  may  not,  therefore,  even  at  this  day,  be  profitless  to 
review  briefly  the  nature  of  the  three  great  offices  which 
mountain  ranges  are  appointed  to  fulfil,  in  order  to  preserve 
the  health  and  increase  the  happiness  of  mankind. 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


133 


I.  Their  first  use  is  of  course  to  give  motion  to  (fresh)  water. 

Every  fountain  and  river,  from  the  inch-deep  streamlet 
that  crosses  the  village  lane  in  trembling  clearness,  to  the 
massy  and  silent  march  of  the  everlasting  multitude  of  waters 
in  Amazon  or  Ganges,  owe  their  play  and  purity  and  power 
to  the  ordained  elevations  of  the  Earth.  Gentle  or  steep, 
extended  or  abrupt,  some  determined  slope  of  the  earths 
surface  is  of  course  necessary,  before  any  wave  can  so  much 
as  overtake  one  sedge  in  its  pilgrimage  ;  and  how  seldom  do 
we  enough  consider,  as  we  walk  beside  the  margins  of  our 
pleasant  brooks,  how  beautiful  and  wonderful  is  that  ordi¬ 
nance,  of  which  every  blade  of  grass  that  waves  in  their  clear 
water  is  a  perpetual  sign  ;  that  the  dew  and  rain  fallen  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  shall  find  no  resting-place  ;  shall  find,  on  the 
contrary,  fixed  channels  traced  for  them,  from  the  ravines  of 
the  central  crests  down  which  they  roar  in  sudden  ranks  of 
foam,  to  the  dark  hollows  beneath  the  banks  of  lowland  past¬ 
ure,  round  which  they  must  circle  slowly  among  the  stems 
and  beneath  the  leaves  of  the  lilies  ;  paths  prepared  for 
them,  by  which,  at  some  appointed  rate  of  journey,  they 
must  evermore  descend,  sometimes  slow  and  sometimes  swift, 
but  never  pausing  ;  the  daily  portion  of  the  earth  they  have 
to  glide  over  marked  for  them  at  each  successive  sunrise,  the 
place  which  has  known  them  knowing  them  no  more,  and  the 
gateways  of  guarding  mountains  opened  for  them  in  cleft  and 
chasm,  none  letting  them  in  their  pilgrimage  ;  and,  from  far 
off,  the  great  heart  of  the  sea  calling  them  to  itself !  Deep 
calleth  unto  deep. 

I  know  not  which  of  the  two  is  the  more  wonderful, — that 
calm,  gradated,  invisible  slope  *  of  the  champaign  land,  which 
gives  motion  to  the  stream  ;  or  that  passage  cloven  for  it 
through  the  ranks  of  hill,  which,  necessary  for  the  health  of 
the  land  immediately  around  them,  would  yet,  unless  so  su- 
pernaturally  divided,  have  fatally  intercepted  the  flow  of  the 

*  (Only  true  on  a  large  scale.  I  have  perhaps  not  allowed  enough 
for  the  mere  secession  of  flowing  water,  supplying  the  evaporation  of 
the  sea,  whether  the  plains  he  level  or  not ; — it  must  find  its  way  to 
the  place  where  there  is  a  fall,  as  through  a  mill  pond  to  the  weir.) 


134 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


waters  from  far-off  countries.  When  did  the  great  spirit  of 
the  river  first  knock  at  those  adamantine  gates  ?  When  did 
the  porter  open  to  it,  and  cast  his  keys  away  for  ever,  lapped 
in  whirling  sand?  I  am  not  satisfied — no  one  should  be  sat¬ 
isfied  with  that  vague  answer — the  river  cut  its  way.  Not 
so.  The  river  found  its  way.*  I  do  not  see  that  rivers,  in 
their  own  strength,  can  do  much  in  cutting  their  way  ;  they 
are  nearly  as  apt  to  choke  their  channels  up,  as  to  carve  them 
out.  Only  give  a  river  some  little  sudden  power  in  a  valley, 
and  see  how  it  will  use  it.  Cut  itself  a  bed?  Not  so, 
by  any  means,  but  fill  up  its  bed,  and  look  for  another,  in 
a  wild,  dissatisfied,  inconsistent  manner.  Any  way,  rather 
than  the  old  one,  will  better  please  it ;  and  even  if  it  is 
banked  up  and  forced  to  keep  to  the  old  one,  it  will  not 
deepen,  but  do  all  it  can  to  raise  it,  and  leap  out  of  it.  And 
although,  wherever  water  has  a  steep  fall,  it  will  swiftly  cut 
itself  a  bed  deep  into  the  rock  or  ground,  it  will  not,  when 
the  rock  is  hard,  cut  a  wider  channel  than  it  actually 
needs  ;  so  that  if  the  existing  river  beds,  through  ranges  of 
mountain,  had  in  reality  been  cut  by  the  streams,  they  would 
be  found,  wherever  the  rocks  are  hard,  only  in  the  form  of 
narrow  and  profound  ravines — like  the  well-known  channel 
of  the  Niagara,  below  the  fall  ;  not  in  that  of  extended  val¬ 
leys.  And  the  actual  work  of  true  mountain  rivers,  though 
often  much  greater  in  proportion  to  their  body  of  water  than 
that  of  the  Niagara,  is  quite  insignificant  when  compared  with 
the  area  and  depth  of  the  valleys  through  which  they  flow ; 
so  that,  although  in  many  cases  it  appears  that  those  larger 
valleys  have  been  excavated  at  earlier  periods  by  more  pow¬ 
erful  streams,  or  by  the  existing  stream  in  a  more  powerful 
condition,  still  the  great  fact  remains  always  equally  plain, 
and  equally  admirable,  that,  whatever  the  nature  and  dura¬ 
tion  of  the  agencies  employed,  the  earth  was  so  shaped  at 
first  as  to  direct  the  currents  of  its  rivers  in  the  manner  most 

*  (  It  is  very  delightful  to  me, — at  least  to  the  proud  spirit  in  me, — 
to  find  myself  thus  early  perceiving  and  clearly  announcing  a  fact  of 
which  modern  geology  is  still  incognizant ;  see  the  postscript  to  this 
chapter,) 


Itf  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


135 


healthy  and  convenient  for  man.  The  valley  of  the  Rhone 
may,  though  it  is  not  likely,  have  been  in  great  part  exca¬ 
vated  in  early  time  by  torrents  a  thousand  times  larger  than 
the  Rhone  ;  but  it  could  not  have  been  excavated  at  all,  un¬ 
less  the  mountains  had  been  thrown  at  first  into  two  chains, 
between  which  the  torrents  were  set  to  work  in  a  given  di¬ 
rection.  And  it  is  easy  to  conceive  how,  under  any  less  be¬ 
neficent  dispositions  of  their  masses  of  hill,  the  continents  of 
the  earth  might  either  have  been  covered  with  enormous 
lakes,  as  parts  of  North  America  actually  are  covered ;  or 
have  become  wildernesses  of  pestiferous  marsh  ;  or  lifeless 
plains,  upon  which  the  water  would  have  dried  as  it  fell, 
leaving  them  for  great  part  of  the  year  desert.  Such  dis¬ 
tricts  do  exist,  and  exist  in  vastness  ;  the  whole  earth  is  not 
prepared  for  the  habitation  of  man  ;  only  certain  small  por¬ 
tions  are  prepared  for  him — the  houses,  as  it  were,  of  the 
human  race,  from  which  they  are  to  look  abroad  upon  the 
rest  of  the  world,  not  to  wonder  or  complain  that  it  is  not  all 
house,  but  to  be  grateful  for  the  kindness  of  the  admirable 
building,  in  the  house  itself,  as  compared  with  the  rest.  It 
would  be  as  absurd  to  think  it  an  evil  that  all  the  world  is 
not  fit  for  us  to  inhabit,  as  to  think  it  an  evil  that  the  globe 
is  no  larger  than  it  is.  As  much  as  we  shall  ever  need  is  evi¬ 
dently  assigned  to  us  for  our  dwelling-place  ;  the  rest,  cov¬ 
ered  with  rolling  waves  or  drifting  sands,  fretted  with  ice, 
or  crested  with  fire,  is  set  before  us  for  contemplation  in  an 
uninhabitable  magnificence  ;  and  that  part  which  we  are  en¬ 
abled  to  inhabit  owes  its  fitness  for  human  life  chiefly  to  its 
mountain  ranges,  which,  throwing  the  superfluous  rain  off  as 
it  falls,  collect  it  in  streams  or  lakes,  and  guide  it  into  given 
places,  and  in  given  directions  ;  so  that  men  can  build  their 
cities  in  the  midst  of  fields  which  they  know  will  be  always 
fertile,  and  establish  the  lines  of  their  commerce  upon 
streams  which  will  not  fail. 

7.  Nor  is  this  giving  of  motion  to  water  to  be  considered 
as  confined  only  to  the  surface  of  the  earth.  A  no  less  im¬ 
portant  function  of  the  hills  is  in  directing  the  flow  of  the 
fountains  and  springs,  from  subterranean  reservoirs.  There 


13G 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


is  no  miraculous  springing  up  of  water  out  of  the  ground  at 
our  feet  ;  but  every  fountain  and  well  is  supplied  from  a 
reservoir  among  the  hills,  so  placed  as  to  involve  some  slight 
fall  or  pressure,  enough  to  secure  the  constant  flowing  of  the 
stream.  And  the  incalculable  blessing  of  the  power  given  to 
us  in  most  valleys,  of  reaching  by  excavation  some  point 
whence  the  water  will  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  ground  in 
perennial  flow,  is  entirely  owing  to  the  concave  disposition  of 
the  beds  of  clay  or  rock  raised  from  beneath  the  bosom  of 
the  valley  into  ranks  of  enclosing  hills. 

8.  II.  The  second  great  use  of  mountains  is  to  maintain  a 
constant  change  in  the  currents  and  nature  of  the  air .  Such 
change  would,  of  course,  have  been  partly  caused  by  differ¬ 
ences  in  soils  and  vegetation,  even  if  the  earth  had  been  level ; 
but  to  a  far  less  extent  than  it  is  now  by  the  chains  of  hills, 
which,  exposing  on  one  side  their  masses  of  rock  to  the  full 
heat  of  the  sun  (increased  by  the  angle  at  which  the  rays 
strike  on  the  slope),  and  on  the  other  casting  a  soft  shadow  for 
leagues  over  the  plains  at  their  feet,  divide  the  earth  not  only 
into  districts,  but  into  climates,  and  cause  perpetual  currents 
of  air  to  traverse  their  passes,*  and  ascend  or  descend  their 
ravines,  altering  both  the  temperature  and  nature  of  the  air 
as  it  passes,  in  a  thousand  different  ways  ;  moistening  it  with 
the  spray  of  their  waterfalls,  sucking  it  down  and  beating  it 
hither  and  thither  in  the  pools  of  their  torrents,  closing  it 
within  clefts  and  caves,  where  the  sunbeams  never  reach,  till 
it  is  as  cold  as  November  mists,  then  sending  it  forth  again 
to  breathe  softly  across  the  slopes  of  velvet  fields,  or  to  be 
scorched  among  sunburnt  shales  and  grassless  crags  ;  then 
drawing  it  back  in  moaning  swirls  through  clefts  of  ice,  and 
up  into  dewy  wreaths  above  the  snow-fields  ;  then  piercing  it 
with  strange  electric  darts  and  flashes  of  mountain  fire,  and 
tossing  it  high  in  fantastic  storm-cloud,  as  the  dried  grass  is 
tossed  by  the  mower,  only  suffering  it  to  depart  at  last,  when 


*  This  second  division  of  my  subject,  compressed  into  one  paragraph, 
is  treated  with  curious  insufficiency.  See  again  postscript  to  this 
chapter. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS.  137 

chastened  and  pure,  to  refresh  the  faded  air  of  the  far-off 
plains. 

9.  III.  The  third  great  use  of  mountains  is  to  cause  per¬ 
petual  change  in  the  soils  of  the  earth.  Without  such  pro¬ 
vision,  the  ground  under  cultivation  would  in  a  series  of 
years  become  exhausted,  and  require  to  be  upturned  labori¬ 
ously  by  the  hand  of  man.  But  the  elevations  of  the  earth’s 
surface  provide  for  it  a  perpetual  renovation.  The  higher 
mountains  suffer  their  summits  to  be  broken  into  fragments 
and  to  be  cast  down  in  sheets  of  massy  rock,  full,  as  we  shall 
see  presently,  of  every  substance  necessary  for  the  nourish¬ 
ment  of  plants  ;  these  fallen  fragments  are  again  broken  by 
frost,  and  ground  by  torrents,  into  various  conditions  of  sand 
and  clay — materials  which  are  distributed  perpetually  by  the 
streams  farther  and  farther  from  the  mountain’s  base.  Every 
shower  which  swells  the  rivulets  enables  their  waters  to 
carry  certain  portions  of  earth  into  new  positions,  and  ex¬ 
poses  new  banks  of  ground  to  be  mined  in  their  turn.  That 
turbid  foaming  of  the  angry  water — that  tearing  down  of 
bank  and  rock  along  the  flanks  of  its  fury — are  no  disturb¬ 
ances  of  the  kind  course  of  nature  ;  they  are  beneficent  opera¬ 
tions  of  laws  necessary  to  the  existence  of  man  and  to  the 
beauty  of  the  earth.  The  process  is  continued  more  gently, 
but  not  less  effectively,  over  all  the  surface  of  the  lower  un¬ 
dulating  country  ;  and  each  filtering  thread  of  summer  rain 
which  trickles  through  the  short  turf  of  the  uplands  is  bear¬ 
ing  its  own  appointed  burden  of  earth  to  be  thrown  down  on 
some  new  natural  garden  in  the  dingles  below. 

And  it  is  not,  in  reality,  a  degrading,  but  a  true,  large,  and 
ennobling  view  of  the  mountain  ranges  of  the  world,  if  we 
compare  them  to  heaps  of  fertile  and  fresh  earth,  laid  up  by 
a  prudent  gardener  beside  his  garden  beds,  whence,  at  in¬ 
tervals,  he  casts  on  them  some  scattering  of  new  and  virgin 
ground.  That  which  we  so  often  lament  as  convulsion  or 
destruction  is  nothing  else  *  than  the  momentary  shaking  of 

*  (I  should  call  it  a  good  deal  else,  now  !  but  must  leave  the  text  un¬ 
touched  ;  being,  in  its  statements  of  pure  fact  putting  its  theology 
•side  for  the  moment — quite  one  of  the  best  pieces  I  have  ever  done.) 


138 


IN  MON  TIB  BS  SANCTIS. 


the  dust  from  the  spade.  The  winter  floods,  which  inflict  a 
temporary  devastation,  bear  with  them  the  elements  of  suc¬ 
ceeding  fertility  ;  the  fruitful  field  is  covered  with  sand  and 
shingle  in  momentary  judgment,  but  in  enduring  mercj'  ;  and 
the  great  river,  which  chokes  its  mouth  with  marsh,  and  tosses 
terror  along  its  shore,  is  but  scattering  the  seeds  of  the  har¬ 
vests  of  futurity,  and  preparing  the  seats  of  unborn  genera¬ 
tions. 

10.  I  have  not  spoken  of  the  local  and  peculiar  utilities  of 
mountains  ;  I  do  not  count  the  benefit  of  the  supply  of  sum¬ 
mer  streams  from  the  moors  of  the  higher  ranges — of  the 
various  medicinal  plants  which  are  nested  among  their  rocks 
— of  the  delicate  pasturage  which  they  furnish  for  cattle  * — 
of  the  forests  in  which  they  bear  timber  for  shipping — the 
stones  they  supply  for  building,  or  the  ores  of  metal  which 
they  collect  into  spots  open  to  discovery,  and  easy  for  work¬ 
ing.  All  these  benefits  are  of  a  secondary  or  a  limited  na¬ 
ture.  But  the  three  great  functions  which  I  have  just  de¬ 
scribed — those  of  giving  motion  and  change  to  water,  air,  and 
earth — are  indispensable  to  human  existence  ;  they  are  oper¬ 
ations  to  be  regarded  with  as  full  a  depth  of  gratitude  as 
the  laws  which  bid  the  tree  bear  fruit,  or  the  seed  multiply 
itself  in  the  earth.  And  thus  those  desolate  and  threatening 
ranges  of  dark  mountains,  which,  in  nearly  all  ages  of  the 
world,  men  have  looked  upon  with  aversion  or  with  terror, 
and  shrunk  back  from  as  if  they  were  haunted  by  perpetual 
images  of  death,  are,  in  reality,  sources  of  life  and  happiness 
far  fuller  and  more  beneficent  than  all  the  bright  fruitfulness 
of  the  plain.  The  valleys  only  feed  ;  the  mountains  feed,  and 
guard,  and  strengthen  us.  We  take  our  ideas  of  fearfulness 
and  sublimity  alternately  from  the  mountains  and  the  sea  ; 
but  we  associate  them  unjustly.  The  sea  wave,  with  all  its 
beneficence,  is  yet  devouring  and  terrible  ;  but  the  silent 
wave  of  the  blue  mountain  is  lifted  toward  heaven  in  a  still¬ 
ness  of  perpetual  mercy  ;  and  the  one  surge,  unfathomable 


*  The  highest  pasturages  (at  least  so  say  the  Savoyards)  being  always 
the  best  and  richest. 


TN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


139 


in  its  darkness,  the  other,  unshaken  in  its  faithfulness,  for 
ever  bear  the  seal  of  their  appointed  symbolism, 

“  THY  JUSTICE  IS  LIKE  THE  GREAT  MOUNTAINS  : 

THY  JUDGMENTS  ARE  A  GREAT  DEEP.” 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CHAPTER  H 

The  subject  of  erosion  by  water,  referred  to  in  the  note  at  p.  134,  is 
treated  of  at  length  in  the  12tli  chapter  of  “Deucalion,”  of  which  the 
conclusions  may  be  summed  in  the  warning  to  young  geologists  not  to 
suppose  that  because  Shanklin  Chine  was  “  chined  ”  by  its  central  gutter, 
therefore  Salisbury  Craigs  were  cut  out  by  the  Water  of  Leith — Ingle- 
borough  by  the  Ribble,  or  Monte  Rosa  by  the  Rhone. 

The  subject  has  since  been  farther  illustrated  by  the  admirable 
drawings  and  sections  given  by  Mr.  Collingwood  in  his  “  Limestone  Alps 
of  Savoy,”  1884. 

The  paragraph  at  p.  136  is  chiefly,  and  enormously,  defective  in  speak¬ 
ing  only  of  the  changes  effected  by  mountains  in  the  nature  of  air,  and 
not  following  out  their  good  offices  in  lifting  the  mountaineer  nations 
to  live  in  the  air  they  purify,  or  rise  into,  already  pure. 


CHAPTER  HI. 


OF  THE  MATERIALS  OF  MOUNTAINS. 

“  Modern  Painters,”  Part  V.,  the  beginning  of  chap.  viii. 

In  the  early  days  of  geological  science  the  substances 
which  composed  the  crust  of  the  earth,  as  far  as  it  could  be 
examined,  were  supposed  to  be  referable  to  three  distinct 
classes  :  the  first  consisting  of  rocks  which  not  only  sup¬ 
ported  all  the  rest,  but  from  wdiich  all  the  rest  were  derived, 
therefore  called  “  Primary;”  the  second  class  consisting  of 
rock  formed  of  the  broken  fragments  or  altered  substance  of 
the  primary  ones,  therefore  called  “  Secondary  ;  ”  and,  thirdly, 
rocks  or  earthy  deposits  formed  by  the  ruins  and  detritus  of 
both  primary  and  secondary  rocks,  called  therefore  “  Ter¬ 
tiary.”  This  classification  was  always,  in  some  degree,  un¬ 
certain  ;  and  has  been  lately  superseded  by  more  complicated 
systems,  founded  on  the  character  of  the  fossils  contained  in 
the  various  deposits,  and  on  the  circumstances  of  position,  by 
which  their  relative  age3  are  more  accurately  ascertainable. 
But  the  original  rude  classification,  though  of  little,  if  any, 
use  for  scientific  purposes,  was  based  on  certain  broad  and 
conspicuous  phenomena,  which  it  brought  clearly  before  the 
popular  mind.  In  this  way  it  may  still  be  serviceable,  and 
ought,  I  think,  to  be  permitted  to  retain  its  place,  as  an  in¬ 
troduction  to  systems  more  defined  and  authoritative.* 

2.  For  the  fact  is,  that  in  approaching  any  large  mountain 

*  I  am  still  entirely  of  this  opinion.  See  postscript  to  chapter. 
These  opening  paragraphs  are  to  my  mind  extremely  well  put,  and 
should  be  read  to  young  people  by  their  tutors  as  an  introduction  to 
geological  study.  I  have  here  and  there  retouched  a  loose  sentence, 
and  leave  them  as  good  as  I  could  do  now. 


IN  MONT  I  BUS  SANCTIS. 


141 


range,  the  ground  over  which  the  spectator  passes,  if  he  ex¬ 
amine  it  with  any  intelligence,  will  almost  always  arrange 
itself  in  his  mind  under  three  great  heads.  There  will  be, 
first,  the  ground  of  the  plains  or  valleys  he  is  about  to  quit, 
composed  of  sand,  clay,  gravel,  rolled  stones,  and  variously 
mingled  soils  ;  which,  when  there  is  opportunity,  at  the  banks 
of  a  stream,  or  the  sides  of  a  railway  cutting,  to  examine  to 
any  depth,  he  will  find  arranged  in  beds  exactly  resembling 
those  of  modern  sandbanks  or  sea-beaches,  and  appearing  to 
have  been  formed  under  natural  laws  such  as  are  in  opera¬ 
tion  daily  around  us.  At  the  outskirts  of  the  hill  district, 
he  may,  perhaps,  find  considerable  eminences,  formed  of  these 
beds  of  loose  gravel  and  sand  ;  but,  as  he  enters  into  it  far¬ 
ther,  he  will  soon  discover  the  hills  to  be  composed  of  somo 
harder  substance,  properly  deserving  the  name  of  rock,  sus¬ 
taining  itself  in  picturesque  forms,  and  appearing,  at  first,  to 
owe  both  its  hardness  and  its  outlines  to  the  action  of  laws 
such  as  do  not  hold  at  the  present  day.  He  can  easily  explain 
the  nature,  and  account  for  the  distribution,  of  the  banks 
which  overhang  the  lowland  road,  or  of  the  dark  earthy  de¬ 
posits  which  enrich  the  lowland  pasture  ;  but  he  cannot  so 
distinctly  imagine  how  the  limestone  hills  of  Derbyshire  and 
Yorkshire  were  hardened  into  their  stubborn  whiteness,  or 
raised  into  their  cavernous  cliffs.  Still,  if  he  carefully  ex¬ 
amine  the  substance  of  these  more  noble  rocks,  he  will,  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten,  discover  them  to  be  composed  of  fine 
calcareous  dust,  or  closely  united  particles  of  sand  ;  and  will 
be  ready  to  accept  as  possible,  or  even  probable,  the  sugges¬ 
tion  of  their  having  been  formed,  by  slow  deposit,  at  the 
bottom  of  deep  lakes  and  ancient  seas,  and  then  gradually 
consolidated  under  such  laws  of  Nature  as  are  still  in  opera¬ 
tion. 

3.  But,  as  he  advances  yet  farther  into  the  hill  district,  ho 
finds  the  rocks  around  him  assuming  a  gloomier  and  more 
majestic  condition.  Their  tint  darkens  ;  their  outlines  become 
wild  and  irregular  ;  and  whereas  before  they  had  only  ap¬ 
peared  at  the  roadside  in  narrow  ledges  among  the  turf,  or 
glanced  out  from  among  the  thickets  above  the  brooks  in 


142 


IN  MON  TIB  VS  SANCTIS. 


white  walls  and  fantastic  towers,  they  now  rear  themselves  up 
in  solemn  and  shattered  masses  far  and  near  ;  softened,  indeed, 
with  strange  harmony  of  clouded  *  colors,  but  possessing  the 
whole  scene  with  their  iron  spirit  ;  and  rising,  in  all  proba¬ 
bility,  into  eminences  as  much  prouder  in  actual  elevation  than 
those  of  the  intermediate  rocks,  as  more  powerful  in  their  in¬ 
fluence  over  every  minor  feature  of  the  landscape. 

4.  And  when  the  traveller  proceeds  to  observe  closely  the 
materials  of  which  these  nobler  ranges  are  composed,  he  finds 
also  a  complete  change  in  their  internal  structure.  They  are 
no  longer  formed  of  delicate  sand  or  dust — each  particle  of 
that  dust  the  same  as  every  other,  and  the  whole  mass  de¬ 
pending  for  its  hardness  merely  on  their  closely  cemented 
unity  ;  but  they  are  now  formed  of  several  distinct  substances 
visibly  unlike  each  other ;  and  not  pressed ,  but  crystallized 
into  one  mass — crystallized  into  a  unity  far  more  perfect 
than  that  of  the  dusty  limestone,  but  yet  without  the  least 
mingling  of  their  several  natures  with  each  other.  Such  a 
rock,  freshly  broken,  has  a  spotty,  granulated,  and,  in  almost 
all  instances,  sparkling,  appearance  ;  it  requires  a  much 
harder  blow  to  break  it  than  the  limestone  or  sandstone  ;  but 
when  once  thoroughly  shattered,  it  is  easy  to  separate  from 
each  other  the  various  substances  of  which  it  is  composed, 
and  to  examine  them  in  their  individual  grains  or  crystals  ;  of 
which  each  variety  will  be  found  to  have  a  different  degree 
of  hardness,  a  different  shade  of  color,  a  different  character 
of  form,  and  a  different  chemical  composition. 

But  this  examination  will  not  enable  the  observer  to  com¬ 
prehend  the  method  either  of  their  formation  or  aggregation, 
at  least  by  any  process  such  as  he  now  sees  taking  place 
around  him  ;  he  will  at  once  be  driven  to  admit  that  some 


*  “  Clouded  ”  referring  to  the  peculiar  softness  and  richness  of  the 
dark  lichens  on  many  primitive  rocks,  as  opposed  to  the  whiteness  or 
gray  yellow  of  many  among  the  secondaries.  “  Iron  spirit,  ”  just  after, 
meaning  a  strength  having  the  toughness  of  iron  in  it,  unassailable ; 
hut  I  find  with  pleasant  surprise  in  extremely  “old  English”  geology,  a 
large  family  of  these  rocks  called  “  siderous,”  from  the  quantity  of  latent 
iron  they  oontain. 


IN  MON  TIB  US  SANCTIS. 


143 


strange  and  powerful  operation  has  taken  place  upon  these 
rocks,  different  from  any  of  which  he  is  at  present  cognizant.* 
5.  Now,  although  these  three  great  groups  of  rocks  do  indeed 
often  pass  into  each  other  by  imperceptible  gradations,  and 
although  their  peculiar  aspect  is  never  a  severe  indication  of 
their  relative  ages,  yet  their  characters  are  for  the  most  part 
so  defined  as  to  make  a  strong  impression  on  the  mind  of  an 
ordinary  observer ;  and  their  age  is  also  for  the  most  part 
approximately  indicated  by  their  degrees  of  hardness  and 
crystalline  aspect.  It  does,  indeed,  sometimes  f  happen  that 
a  soft  and  slimy  clay  will  pass  into  a  rock  like  Aberdeen 
granite  by  transitions  so  subtle  that  no  point  of  separation 
can  be  determined  ;  and  it  very  often  happens  that  rocks 
like  Aberdeen  granite  are  of  more  recent  formation  than 
certain  beds  of  sandstone  and  limestone.  But  in  spite  of  all 
these  uncertainties  and  exceptions,  I  believe  that  unless  actual 
pains  be  taken  to  efface  from  the  mind  its  natural  impressions, 
the  idea  of  three  great  classes  of  rocks  and  earth  will  main¬ 
tain  its  ground  in  the  thoughts  of  the  generally  intelligent 
observer  ;  that,  whether  he  desire  it  or  not,  he  will  find  him¬ 
self  throwing  the  soft  and  loose  clays  and  sands  together 
under  one  head  ;  placing  the  hard  rocks,  of  a  dull,  compact, 
homogeneous  substance,  under  another  head ;  and  the 
hardest  rocks,  of  a  crystalline,  glittering,  and  various  sub¬ 
stance,  under  a  third  head  ;  and  having  done  this,  he  will  also 
find  that,  with  certain  easily  admissible  exceptions,  these 
three  classes  of  rocks  are,  in  every  district  which  he  examines, 
of  three  different  ages  ;  that  the  softest  are  the  youngest,  the 
hard  and  homogeneous  ones  are  older,  and  the  crystalline  are 
the  oldest  ;  and  he  will,  perhaps,  in  the  end,  find  it  a  somewhat 


*  The  original  text  proceeded  thus — “  and  farther  inquiry  will  prob¬ 
ably  induce  him  to  admit,  as  more  than  probable,  the  supposition  that 
their  structure  is  in  great  part  owing  to  the  action  of  enormous  heat  pro¬ 
longed  for  indefinite  periods” — which  sentence  I  remove  into  this  note  to 
prevent  the  lucidity  and  straightforward  descriptional  truth  of  these 
paragraphs  to  be  soiled  with  conjecture. 

f  Very  rarely!  I  forget  what  instance  I  was  thinking  of — anyhow 
the  sentence  is  too  strongly  put, 


144 


IN  M  ON  TIB  U S  SANCTIS. 


inconvenient  piece  of  respect  to  the  complexity  and  accuracy 
of  modern  geological  science,  if  he  refuse  to  the  three  classes, 
thus  defined  in  his  imagination,  their  ancient  titles  of  Tertiary, 
Secondary,  and  Primary. 

6.  But  however  this  may  be,  there  is  one  lesson  evidently 
intended  to  be  taught  by  the  different  characters  of  these 
rocks,  which  we  must  not  allow  to  escape  us.  We  have  to  ob¬ 
serve,  first,  the  state  of  perfect  powerlessness,  and  loss  of  all 
beauty,  exhibited  in  those  beds  of  earth  in  which  the  sepa¬ 
rated  pieces  or  particles  are  entirely  independent  of  each 
other,  more  especially  in  the  gravel  whose  pebbles  have  all 
been  rolled  into  one  shape ;  secondly,  the  greater  degree  of 
permanence,  power,  and  beauty  possessed  by  the  rocks  whose 
component  atoms  have  some  affection  and  attraction  for  each 
other,  though  all  of  one  kind  ;  and,  lastly,  the  utmost  form 
and  highest  beauty  of  the  rocks  in  which  the  several  atoms 
have  all  different  shapes,  characters ,  and  offices ;  but  are  in¬ 
separably  united  by  some  fiery,  or  baptismal,*  process  which 
has  purified  them  all. 

It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  point  out  how  these  natural 
ordinances  seem  intended  f  to  teach  us  the  great  truths  which 
are  the  basis  of  all  political  science ;  how  the  polishing 
friction  which  separates,  the  affection  that  binds,  and  the 
affliction  that  fuses  and  confirms,  are  accurately  symbolized 
by  the  processes  to  which  the  several  ranks  of  hills  appear  to 
owe  their  present  aspect  ;  and  how,  even  if  the  knowledge 
of  those  processes  be  denied  to  us,  that  present  aspect  may  in 
itself  seem  no  imperfect  image  of  the  various  states  of  man¬ 
kind  :  first,  that  which  is  powerless  through  total  disorgan¬ 
ization  ;  secondly,  that  which,  though  united,  and  in  some 
degree  powerful,  is  yet  incapable  of  great  effort,  or  result, 
owing  to  the  too  great  similarity  and  confusion  of  offices,  both 

*  The  words  “or  baptismal  ”  now  inserted. 

f  Most  people  being  unable  to  imagine  intention  under  the  guise  of 
fixed  law,  I  should  have  said  now,  rather  than  “  seem  intended  to  teach 
us,”  “do,  if  we  will  consider  them,  teach  us.”  See  however,  below,  the 
old  note  to  §  9.  This  6th  paragraph  is  the  germ,  or  rather  bulb,  of 
Ethics  of  the  Dust. 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


145 


in  ranks  and  individuals ;  and  finally,  the  perfect  state  of 
brotherhood  and  strength  in  which  each  character  is  clearly 
distinguished,  separately  perfected,  and  employed  in  its 
proper  place  and  office. 

7.  I  shall  not,  however,  so  oppose  myself  to  the  views  of  our 
leading  geologists  as  to  retain  here  the  names  of  Primary, 
Secondary,  and  Tertiary  rocks.  But  as  I  wish  the  reader  to 
keep  the  ideas  of  the  three  classes  clearly  in  his  mind,  I  will 
ask  his  leave  to  give  them  names  which  involve  no  theory,  and 
can  be  liable,  therefore,  to  no  grave  objections.  We  will  call 
the  hard,  and  (generally)  central,  masses,  Crystalline  Rocks, 
because  they  almost  always  present  an  appearance  of  crys¬ 
tallization.*  The  less  hard  substances,  which  appear  compact 
and  homogeneous,  we  will  call  Coherent  Rocks,  and  for  the 
scattered  debris  we  will  use  the  general  term  Diluvium. 

8.  All  these  orders  of  substance  agree  in  one  character,  that 
of  being  more  or  less  frangible  or  soluble.  One  material,  in¬ 
deed,  which  enters  largely  into  the  composition  of  most  of 
them,  flinty  is  harder  than  iron ;  but  even  this,  their  chief 
source  of  strength,  is  easily  broken  by  a  sudden  blow  ;  and  it 
is  so  combined  in  the  large  rocks  with  softer  substances,  that 
time  and  the  violence  or  chemical  agency  of  the  weather 
invariably  produce  certain  destructive  effects  on  their  masses. 
Some  of  them  become  soft,  and  moulder  away  ;  others  break, 
little  by  little,  into  angular  fragments  or  slaty  sheets  ;  but  all 
yield  in  some  way  or  other  ;  and  the  problem  to  be  solved  in 
every  mountain  range  appears  to  be,  that  under  these  condi¬ 
tions  of  decay,  the  cliffs  and  peaks  may  be  raised  as  high  and 
thrown  into  as  noble  forms,  as  is  possible,  consistently  with 
an  effective,  though  not  perfect,  permanence,  and  a  general, 
though  not  absolute,  security. 

9.  Perfect  permanence  and  absolute  security  were  evidently 
in  nowise  intended. f  It  would  have  been  as  easy  for  the 


*Not  strongly  enough  put,  this  time.  They  always  are  crystalline, 
whether  they  present  the  appearance  of  it  or  not. 

f  I  am  well  aware  that  to  the  minds  of  many  persons  nothing  bears  a 
greater  appearance  of  presumption  than  any  attempt  at  reasoning  re- 

10 


146 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


Creator  to  have  made  mountains  of  steel  as  of  granite,  of 
adamant  as  of  lime  ;  but  this  was  clearly  no  part  of  the  Divine 
counsels  :  mountains  were  to  be  destructible  and  frail — to 
melt  under  the  soft  lambency  of  the  streamlet,  to  shiver 
before  the  subtle  wedge  of  the  frost,  to  wither  with  un- 
traceable  decay  in  their  own  substance — and  yet,  under  all 
these  conditions  of  destruction,  to  be  maintained  in  magnifi¬ 
cent  eminence  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

Nor  is  it  in  anywise  difficult  for  us  to  perceive  the  benefi¬ 
cent  reasons  for  this  appointed  frailness  of  the  mountains. 
They  appear  to  be  threefold  :  the  first,  and  the  most  im¬ 
portant,  that  successive  soils  might  be  supplied  to  the  plains, 
in  the  manner  explained  in  the  last  chapter,  and  that  men 
might  be  furnished  with  a  material  for  their  works  of  archi¬ 
tecture  and  sculpture,  at  once  soft  enough  to  be  subdued,  and 
hard  enough  to  be  preserved  ;  the  second,  that  some  sense  of 
danger  might  always  be  connected  with  the  most  precipitous 
forms,  and  thus  increase  their  sublimity  ;  and  the  third,  that 
a  subject  of  perpetual  interest  might  be  opened  to  the  human 
mind  in  observing  the  changes  of  form  brought  about  by  time 
on  these  monuments  of  Creation. 

10.  In  order,  therefore,  to  understand  the  method  in  which 
these  various  substances  break,  so  as  to  produce  the  forms 
which  are  of  chief  importance  in  landscape,  as  well  as  the  ex¬ 
quisite  adaptation  of  all  their  qualities  to  the  service  of  men, 
it  will  be  well  that  I  should  take  some  note  of  them  in  their 
order  ;  not  with  any  far-followed  mineralogical  detail,  but 
with  care  enough  to  enable  me  hereafter  to  explain,  without 


specting  the  purposes  of  the  Divine  Being ;  and  that  in  many  cases  it 
would  be  thought  more  consistent  with  the  modesty  of  humanity  to 
limit  its  endeavor  to  the  ascertaining  of  physical  causes  than  to  form 
conjectures  respecting  Divine  intentions.  But  I  believe  this  feeling  to 
be  false  and  dangerous.  Wisdom  can  only  be  demonstrated  in  its  ends, 
and  goodness  only  perceived  in  its  motives.  He  who  in  a  morbid  mod¬ 
esty  supposes  that  he  is  incapable  of  apprehending  any  of  the  purposes 
of  God  renders  himself  also  incapable  of  witnessing  His  wisdom  ;  and  he 
who  supposes  that  favors  may  be  bestowed  without  intention  will  soon 
learn  to  receive  tliejn  without  gratitude. 


IN  MON  TIB  NS  SANCTIS. 


147 


obscurity,  any  phenomena  dependent  upon  such  peculiarities 
of  substance. 

(I  have  cut  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  old  book  in  half  here, 
for  better  arrangement  of  subject.  The  reader  will  perhaps 
forego,  once  in  a  way,  without  painful  sense  of  loss,  my  cus¬ 
tomary  burst  of  terminal  eloquence.) 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  CHAPTER  III. 

For  many  reasons,  which  will  appear  one  by  one  in  the  course  of  this 
work,  I  think  it  well  to  give,  for  postscript  to  this  chapter,  a  translation 
of  Saussure's  introductory  account  of  granite,  published  in  1803,  at 
Neuchatel,  chez  Louis  Fauche-Borel,  imprimeur  clu  Hoi  (King  of 
Prussia),  “  Voyages  dans  les  Alpes,”  vol.  i.  chap.  v.  Les  Roches  Com- 
posees.  Granit. 

“Granites  belong  to  that  class  of  stones  which  naturalists  name  com¬ 
posed  stones,  or  rocks,  or  living  rock,  roc  vif,*  the  saxa  mixta  of  Wal- 
lerius.  This  class  includes  stones  which  are  composed  of  two,  three,  or 
four  different  species  of  stones,  intermixed  under  the  form  of  angular 
grains,  or  folia  (feuillets)  united  by  the  intimacy  of  their  contact,  without 
the  hell)  °f  anV  stronger  gluten. 

“  Those  which  divide  themselves  by  folia  are  called  schistous  rocks,  or 
foliated  rocks  (Roches  schisteuses  ou  Roches  feuilletees).  Saxa  fissilia, 
Wall.  Those  which  appear  composed  of  grains,  and  which  present 
neither  folia  nor  sensible  veins,  are  named  Rocks  in  mass.  Saxa  solida, 
Wall.  Such  are  the  granites. 

“  It  is  these  two  species  of  rocks  which  form  the  matter  of  the  most 
elevated  mountains,  such  as  the  central  chains  of  the  Alps,  the  Cordil¬ 
lera,  the  Ural,  Caucasus,  and  Altaic  mountains.  One  never  finds  them 
seated  upon  (assises  sur)  mountains  of  slate  (ardoise)  or  of  calcareous 
stone ;  they  serve,  on  the  contrary,  for  base  to  these,  and  have  conse¬ 
quently  existed  before  them.  They  bear  then,  by  just  claim,  the  name 


*  The  modern  reader  passes  as  merely  poetical  the  words  “  living  rock  of 
former  good  writers.  But  living  rock  is  as  distinct  from  dead,  as  heart  of 
oak  from  dry  rot.  In  accuracy,  “living”  is  the  word  used  by  the  natural 
human  sense  to  express  the  difference  between  a  crystalline  rock  and  one  of 
mere  coagulated  sand  or  Blime. 


148 


IN  MONTIBUS  SANCTIS. 


of  primitive  mountains,  while  those  of  slate  and  calcareous  stone  are 
qualified  as  secondary.  ” 

The  young  reader  will  do  well  to  fix  these  simple  statements  in  his 
head,  and  by  no  means  let  them  be  shaken  in  it.  Modern  geologists 
will  tell  him  that  Mont  Blanc  is  young  ;  but  the  date  of  a  mountain’s 
elevation  is  not  that  of  its  substance.  Granite  no  more  becomes  a  sec¬ 
ondary  rock  in  lifting  a  bed  of  chalk  than  an  old  man  becomes  a  boy 
in  throwing  off  his  bedclothes.  All  modern  geologists  will  tell  you  that 
granite  and  basalt  are  pretty  much  the  same  thing,  that  each  may  be¬ 
come  the  other,  and  any  come  to  the  top.  Recollect  simply,  to  begin 
with,  that  granite  forms  delightful  and  healthy  countries,  basalt  gloomy 
and  oppressive  ones,  and  that,  if  you  have  the  misfortune  to  live  under 
Etna  or  Hecla,  you  and  your  house  may  both  be  buried  in  basalt  to¬ 
morrow  morning  ;  but  that  nobody  was  ever  buried  in  granite,  unless 
somebody  paid  for  his  tomb.  Recollect  farther,  that  granite  is  for  the 
most  part  visibly  composed  of  three  substances,  always  easily  recogniz¬ 
able — quartz,  felspar,  and  mica  ;  but  basalt  may  be  made  of  anything 
on  the  face  or  in  the  stomach  of  the  Earth.  And  recollect  finally,  that 
there  was  assuredly  a  time  when  the  Earth  had  no  animals  upon  it ; 
another  time  when  it  had  only  nasty  and  beastly  animals  upon  it  ;  and 
that  at  this  time  it  has  a  great  many  beautiful  and  angelic  animals  upon 
it,  tormented  out  of  their  lives  by  one  extremely  foolish  two-legged 
one.  To  these  three  periods,  the  first  of  chaotic  solitude,  the  second  of 
rampant  monstrosity,  and  the  third  of  ruthless  beauty,  the  names  of 
Primary,  Secondary,  and  Tertiary  may  justly  hold  for  ever — be  the 
Fourth  Age  what  it  may. 


CCELI  E1STARRANT, 


STUDIES  OF  CLOUD  FORM 

AND  OF  ITS  VISIBLE  CAUSES. 


COLLECTED  AND  COMPLETED  OUT  OF 


»• 


“MODERN  PAINTERS 


PREFACE. 


The  studies  of  the  nature  and  form  of  clouds,  reprinted  in 
the  following  pages  from  the  fourth  and  fifth  volumes  of 
“Modern  Painters,”  will  be  in  this  series  third  in  order,  as 
they  are  in  those  volumes,  of  the  treatises  on  natural  history 
which  were  there  made  the  foundation  of  judgment  in  land¬ 
scape  art.  But  the  essay  on  trees  will  require  more  careful 
annotation  than  I  have  at  present  time  for,  and  I  am  also  de¬ 
sirous  of  placing  these  cloud  studies  quickly  in  the  hands  of 
anyone  who  may  have  been  interested  in  my  account  of 
recent  storms. 

I  find  nothing  to  alter,*  and  little  to  explain,  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  portions  of  my  former  work,  in  which  such  passages  as 
the  eighth  and  ninth  paragraphs  of  the  opening  chapter — usu¬ 
ally  thought  of  by  the  public  merely  as  word-painting,  but 
which  are  in  reality  accurately  abstracted,  and  finally  concen¬ 
trated,  expressions  of  the  general  laws  of  natural  phenomena  f 
— are  indeed  among  the  best  I  have  ever  written,  and  in  their 


*  Sometimes  a  now  useless  reference  to  other  parts  of  the  book  is 
omitted,  or  one  necessary  to  connect  the  sentence  broken  by  such  omis¬ 
sion  ;  otherwise  I  do  not  retouch  the  original  text. 

f  Thus  the  sentence  at  page  7,  “murmuring  only  when  the  winds 
raise  them,  or  rocks  divide.”  does  not  describe,  or  word-paint,  the  sound 
of  waters,  but  (with  only  the  admitted  art  of  a  carefully  reiterated  “  r  ”) 
sums  the  general  causes  of  it  ;  while,  again,  the  immediately  following 
one,  defining  the  limitations  of  sea  and  river,  “  restrained  by  established 
shores,  and  guided  through  unchanging  channels,”  attempts  no  word- 
painting  either  of  coast  or  burnside  ;  but  states,  with  only  such  orna¬ 
ment  of  its  simplicity  as  could  be  got  of  the  doubled  “t”  and  doubled 
“  ch,”  the  fact  of  the  stability  of  existing  rock  structure  which  I  was,  at 
that  time,  alone  among  geologists  in  asserting. 


152 


PREFACE. 


way,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  express  my  conviction,  unlikely  to 
be  surpassed  by  any  other  author.  But  it  may  be  necessary 
to  advise  the  student  of  these  now  isolated  chapters  not  to  in¬ 
terpret  any  of  their  expressions  of  awe  or  wonder  as  meaning 
to  attribute  any  supernatural,  or  in  any  special  sense  miracu¬ 
lous,  character  to  the  phenomena  described,  other  than  that 
of  their  adaptation  to  human  feeling  or  need.  I  did  not  in 
the  least  mean  to  insinuate,  because  it  was  not  easy  to  explain 
the  buoyancy  of  clouds,  that  they  were  supported  in  the  air 
as  St.  Francis  in  his  ecstasy  ;  or  because  the  forms  of  a 
thunder-cloud  were  terrific,  that  they  were  less  natural  than 
those  of  a  diamond  ;  but  in  all  the  forms  and  actions  of  non- 
sentient  things,  I  recognized  (as  more  at  length  explained  in 
the  conclusion  of  my  essay  on  the  plague  cloud)  constant 
miracle,  and  according  to  the  need  and  deserving  of  man, 
more  or  less  constantly  manifest  Deity.  Time,  and  times, 
have  since  passed  over  my  head,  and  have  taught  me  to  hope 
for  more  than  this  —  nay,  perhaps  so  much  more  as  that  in 
English  cities,  where  two  or  three  are  gathered  in  His  name, 
such  vision  as  that  recorded  by  the  sea-king  Dandolo  * 
might  again  be  seen, when  he  was  commanded  that  in  the  midst 
of  the  city  he  should  build  a  church,  “  in  the  place  above 
which  he  should  see  a  red  cloud  rest.” 

J.  Buskin. 

Oxford,  November  8th,  1884. 


*  St.  Mark’s. 


CCELI  ENARRANT. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  FIRMAM  ENT. 

“Modern  Painters”  Vol.  IV.,  Part  V,  Chap .  VI. 

1.  The  task  whicli  we  now  enter  upon,  as  explained  in  the 
close  of  the  preceding  chapter,  is  the  ascertaining  as  far  as 
possible  what  the  proper  effect  of  the  natural  beauty  of  differ¬ 
ent  objects  ought  to  be  on  the  human  mind,  and  the  degree 
in  which  this  nature  of  theirs,  and  true  influence,  have  been 
understood  and  transmitted  by  Turner. 

I  mean  to  begin  with  the  mountains,  for  the  sake  of  conve¬ 
nience  in  illustration,  but,  in  the  proper  order  of  thought, 
the  clouds  ought  to  be  considered  first ;  and  I  think  it  will  be 
well,  in  this  intermediate  chapter,  to  bring  to  a  close  that  line 
of  reasoning  by  which  we  have  gradually,  as  I  hope,  strength¬ 
ened  the  defences  around  the  love  of  mystery,  which  distin¬ 
guishes  our  modern  art ;  and  to  show,  on  final  and  conclusive 
authority,  what  noble  things  these  clouds  are,  and  with  what 
feeling  it  seems  to  be  intended  by  their  Creator  that  we  should 
contemplate  them. 

2.  The  account  given  of  the  stages  of  creation  in  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis  is  in  every  respect  clear  and  intelligible  to 
the  simplest  reader,  except  in  the  statement  of  the  work 
of  the  second  day.  I  suppose  that  this  statement  is  passed 
over  by  careless  readers  as  a  sublime  mystery  which  was  not 
intended  to  be  understood.  But  there  is  no  mystery  in  any 
other  part  of  the  chapter,  and  it  seems  to  me  unjust  to  con¬ 
clude  that  any  was  intended  here. 


154 


GCELI  EN ARRANT. 


And  tlie  passage  ought  to  be  peculiarly  interesting  to  us,  as 
being  the  first  in  the  Bible  in  which  the  heavens  are  named, 
and  the  only  one  in  which  the  word  “Heaven,”  all-important 
as  that  word  is  to  our  understanding  of  the  most  precious 
promises  of  Scripture,  receives  a  definite  explanation. 

Let  us,  therefore,  see  whether  by  a  careful  comparison  of 
the  verse  with  other  passages  in  which  the  word  occurs,  we 
may  not  be  able  to  arrive  at  as  clear  an  understanding  of  this 
portion  of  the  chapter  as  of  the  rest. 

3.  In  the  first  place  the  English  word  “  Firmament  ”  itself 
is  useless,  because  we  never  employ  it  but  as  a  synonym  of 
heaven  ;  it  conveys  no  other  distinct  idea  to  us ;  and  the  verse, 
though  from  our  familiarity  with  it  we  imagine  that  it  pos¬ 
sesses  meaning,  has  in  reality  no  more  point  or  value  than  if 
it  were  written,  “God  said,  Let  there  be  a  something  in  the 
midst  of  the  waters,  and  God  called  the  something  Heaven.” 

But  the  marginal  reading,  “  Expansion,”  has  definite  value  ; 
and  the  statement  that  “  God  said,  Let  there  be  an  expansion 
in  the  midst  of  the  waters,  and  God  called  the  expansion 
Heaven,”  has  an  apprehensible  meaning. 

4.  Accepting  this  expression  as  the  one  intended,  we  have 
next  to  ask  what  expansion  there  is  between  two  waters,  de- 
scribable  by  the  term  Heaven.  Milton  adopts  the  term  “  ex¬ 
panse  ;  ”  *  but  he  understands  it  of  the  whole  volume  of  the 
air  which  surrounds  the  earth.  Whereas,  so  far  as  we  can  tell, 
there  is  no  water  beyond  the  air,  in  the  fields  of  space  ;  and 
the  whole  expression  of  division  of  waters  from  waters  is  thus 
rendered  valueless. 

o.  Now,  with  respect  to  this  whole  chapter,  we  must  re¬ 
member  always  that  it  is  intended  for  the  instruction  of  all 
mankind,  not  for  the  learned  reader  only  ;  and  that,  therefore, 
the  most  simple  and  natural  interpretation  is  the  likeliest  in 


*  “God  made 

The  firmament,  expanse  of  liquid,  pure, 
Transparent,  elemental  air,  diffused 
In  circuit  to  the  uttermost  convex 
Of  this  great  round.” 


— Paradise  Lost,  Book  VII 


CCELI  ENAURANT. 


155 


general  to  be  the  true  one.  An  unscientific  reader  knows  lit¬ 
tle  about  the  manner  in  which  the  volume  of  the  atmosphere 
surrounds  the  earth  ;  but  I  imagine  that  he  could  hardly  glance 
at  the  sky  when  rain  was  falling  in  the  distance,  and  see  the 
level  line  of  the  bases  of  the  clouds  from  which  the  shower 
descended,  without  being  able  to  attach  an  instant  and  easy 
meaning  to  the  words  “  expansion  in  the  midst  of  the  waters.” 
And,  if  having  once  seized  this  idea,  he  proceeded  to  examine 
it  more  accurately,  he  would  perceive  at  once,  if  he  had  ever 
noticed  anything  of  the  nature  of  clouds,  that  the  level  line  of 
their  bases  did  indeed  most  severely  and  stringently  divide 
“  waters  from  waters,”  that  is  to  say,  divide  water  in  its  col¬ 
lective  and  tangible  state,  from  water  in  its  divided  and  aereal 
state ;  or  the  waters  which  fall  and  flow ,  from  those  which 
rise  and  flow.  Next,  if  we  try  this  interpretation  in  the  theo¬ 
logical  sense  of  the  word  Heaven,  and  examine  whether  the 
clouds  are  spoken  of  as  God’s  dwelling-place,  we  find  God 
going  before  the  Israelites  in  a  pillar  of  cloud  ;  revealing  Him¬ 
self  in  a  cloud  on  Sinai  ;  appearing  in  a  cloud  on  the  mercy 
seat  ;  filling  the  Temple  of  Solomon  with  the  cloud  when  its 
dedication  is  accepted  ;  appearing  in  a  great  cloud  to  Ezekiel ; 
ascending  into  a  cloud  before  the  eyes  of  the  disciples  on 
Mount  Olivet,  and  in  like  manner  returning  to  Judgment. 
“ Behold  He  cometh  with  clouds,  and  every  eye  shall  see  Him.” 
“  Then  shall  they  see  the  Son  of  Man  coming  in  the  clouds  of 
heaven,  with  power  and  great  glory.’  *  While  farther,  the 
“clouds”  and  “heavens”  are  used  as  interchangeable  words 
in  those  Psalms  which  most  distinctly  set  forth  the  power  of 
God :  “  He  bowed  the  heavens  also,  and  came  down  ;  He  made 
darkness  pavilions  around  about  Him,  dark  waters,  and  thick 
clouds  of  the  skies.”  And  again  :  “  Thy  mercy,  O  Lord,  is  in 
the  heavens,  and  Thy  faithfulness  reacheth  unto  the  clouds. 
And  again :  “  His  excellency  is  over  Israel,  and  His  strength 


*  The  reader  may  refer  to  the  following  texts,  which  it  is  needless  to 
quote:— Exod.  xiii.  21,  xvi.  10,  xix.  0,  xxiv.  10,  xxxiv.  5;  Levit.  xvi.  2  ; 
Num.  x.  34  ;  Judges  v.  4  ;  1  Kings  viii.  10  ;  Ezek.  i.  4  ;  Dan.  vii.  l->  , 
Matt.  xxiv.  30  ;  1  Thess.  iv.  17  ;  Rev.  i.  7. 


156 


CCELI  EN ARRANT. 


is  in  the  clouds.”  Again  :  “  The  clouds  poured  out  water, 
the  skies  sent  out  a  sound,  the  voice  of  Thy  thunder  was  in 
the  heaven.”  Again  :  “Clouds  and  darkness  are  round  about 
Him,  righteousness  and  judgment  are  the  habitation  of  His 
throne  ;  the  heavens  declare  His  righteousness,  and  all  the 
people  see  His  glory.” 

6.  In  all  these  passages  the  meaning  is  unmistakable,  if 
they  possess  definite  meaning  at  all.  We  are  too  apt  to  take 
them  merely  for  sublime  and  vague  imagery,  and  therefore 
gradually  to  lose  the  apprehension  of  their  life  and  power. 
The  expression,  “  He  bowed  the  heavens,”  for  instance,  is,  I 
suppose,  received  by  most  readers  as  a  magnificent  hyperbole, 
having  reference  to  some  peculiar  and  fearful  manifestation 
of  God’s  power  to  the  writer  of  the  Psalm  in  which  the  words 
occur.  But  the  expression  either  has  plain  meaning,  or  it  has 
no  meaning.  Understand  by  the  term  “Heavens”  the  com¬ 
pass  of  infinite  space  around  the  earth,  and  the  expression, 
“bowed  the  Heavens,”  however  sublime,  is  wholly  without 
meaning  ;  infinite  space  cannot  be  bent  or  bowed.  But 
understand  by  the  “Heavens ’’the  veil  of  clouds  above  the 
earth,  and  the  expression  is  neither  hyperbolical  nor  obscure  ; 
it  is  pure,  plain,  and  accurate  truth,  and  it  describes  God, 
not  as  revealing  Himself  in  any  peculiar  way  to  David,  but 
doing  what  He  is  still  doing  before  our  own  eyes  day  by  day. 
By  accepting  the  words  in  their  simple  sense,  we  are  thus  led 
to  apprehend  the  immediate  presence  of  the  Deity,  and  His 
purpose  of  manifesting  Himself  as  near  us  whenever  the 
storm-cloud  stoops  upon  its  course  ;  while  by  our  vague  and 
inaccurate  acceptance  of  the  words  we  remove  the  idea  of  His 
presence  far  from  us,  into  a  region  which  we  can  neither  see 
nor  know  ;  and  gradually,  from  the  close  realization  of  a  liv¬ 
ing  God  who  “maketh  the  clouds  His  chariot,”  we  refine  and 
explain  ourselves  into  dim  and  distant  suspicion  of  an  inac¬ 
tive  God,  inhabiting  inconceivable  places,  and  fading  into  the 
multitudinous  formalisms  of  the  laws  of  Nature. 

7.  All  errors  of  this  kind — and  in  the  present  day  we  are 
in  constant  and  grievous  danger  of  falling  into  them — arise 
from  the  originally  mistaken  idea  that  man  can,  “by  search- 


OCELI  EN ARRANT. 


157 


mg,  find  out  God — find  out  the  Almighty  to  perfection  ;  ” 
that  is  to  say,  by  help  of  courses  of  reasoning  and  accumula¬ 
tions  of  science,  apprehend  the  nature  of  the  Deity  in  a  more 
exalted  and  more  accurate  manner  than  in  a  state  of  compara¬ 
tive  ignorance  ;  whereas  it  is  clearly  necessary,  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  time,  that  God’s  way  of  revealing 
Himself  to  His  creatures  should  be  a  simple  way,  -which  all 
those  creatures  may  understand.  Whether  taught  or  un¬ 
taught,  whether  of  mean  capacity  or  enlarged,  it  is  necessary 
that  communion  with  their  Creator  should  be  possible  to  all ; 
and  the  admission  to  such  communion  must  be  rested,  not  on 
their  having  a  knowledge  of  astronomy,  but  on  their  having  a 
human  soul.  In  order  to  render  this  communion  possible, 
the  Deity  has  stooped  from  His  throne,  and  has  not  only,  in 
the  person  of  the  Son,  taken  upon  Him  the  veil  of  our  human 
flesh,  but,  in  the  person  of  the  Father,  taken  upon  Him  the 
veil  of  our  human  thoughts ,  and  permitted  us,  by  His  own 
spoken  authority,  to  conceive  Him  simply  and  clearly  as  a 
loving  Father  and  Friend  ; — a  being  to  be  walked  with  and 
reasoned  with  ;  to  be  moved  by  our  entreaties,  angered  by 
our  rebellion,  alienated  by  our  coldness,  pleased  by  our  love, 
and  glorified  by  our  labor  ;  and  finally,  to  be  beheld  in  imme¬ 
diate  and  active  presence  in  all  the  powers  and  changes  of 
creation. 

This  conception  of  God,  which  is  the  child’s,  is  evidently 
the  only  one  which  can  be  universal,  and  therefore,  the  only 
one  which  for  us  can  be  true.  The  moment  that,  in  our  pride 
of  heart,  we  refuse  to  accept  the  condescension  of  the  Al¬ 
mighty,  and  desire  Him,  instead  of  stooping  to  hold  our 
hands,  to  rise  up  before  us  into  His  glory — we,  hoping  that 
by  standing  on  a  grain  of  dust  or  two  of  human  knowledge 
higher  than  our  fellows,  we  may  behold  the  Creator  as  He 
rises — God  takes  us  at  our  word  ;  He  rises,  into  His  own 
invisible  and  inconceivable  Majesty  ;  He  goes  forth  upon  the 
ways  which  are  not  our  ways,  and  retires  into  the  thoughts 
which  are  not  our  thoughts ;  and  we  are  left  alone.  And 
presently  we  say  in  our  vain  hearts,  “  There  is  no  God.” 

8.  I  would  desire,  therefore,  to  receive  God’s  account  of 


158 


C(ELI  EN ARRANT. 


His  own  creation  as,  under  the  ordinary  limits  of  human 
knowledge  and  imagination,  it  would  be  received  by  a  simple- 
minded  man  ;  and  finding  that  the  “  heavens  and  the  earth  ” 
are  spoken  of  always  as  having  something  like  equal  relation 
to  each  other  (“  thus  the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  finished, 
and  all  the  host  of  them”),  I  reject  at  once  all  idea  of  the 
term  “Heavens”  being  intended  to  signify  the  infinity  of 
space  inhabited  by  countless  sand,  with  which  space  though 
we  measured  not  the  earth  only,  but  the  sun  itself,  with  all 
the  solar  system,  no  relation  of  equality  or  comparison  could 
be  inferred.  But  I  suppose  the  heavens  to  mean  that  part  of 
the  creation  which  holds  equal  companionship  with  our  globe  ; 
I  understand  the  “rolling  of  those  heavens  together  as  a  scroll  ” 
to  be  an  equal  and  relative  destruction  with  the  “melting  of 
the  elements  in  fervent  heat  ;  ”  *  and  I  understand  the  making 
the  firmament  to  signify  that,  so  far  as  man  is  concerned, 
most  magnificent  ordinance  of  the  clouds — the  ordinance,  that 
as  the  great  plain  of  waters  was  formed  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  so  also  a  plain  of  waters  should  be  stretched  along  the 
height  of  air,  and  the  face  of  the  cloud  answer  the  face  of  the 
ocean  ;  and  this  upper  and  heavenly  plain  should  be  of  waters, 
as  it  were,  glorified  in  their  nature,  no  longer  quenching  the 


*  Compare  also  Job  xxxvi.  29,  “The  spreading  of  the  clouds,  and 
the  noise  of  Ilis  tabernacle ;  ”  and  xxxviii.  33,  “  Knowest  thou  the 
ordinances  of  heaven  ?  canst  thou  set  the  dominion  thereof  in  the 
earth  ?  canst  thou  lift  up  thy  voice  to  the  clouds  ?  ” 

Observe  that  in  the  passage  of  Addison’s  well-known  hymn — 

“  The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue,  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim  ” — 

the  writer  has  clearly  the  true  distinctions  in  his  mind  ;  he  does  not 
use  his  words,  as  we  too  often  accept  them,  in  vain  tautology.  By  the 
spacious  firmament  he  means  the  clouds,  using  the  word  “  spacious 
to  mark  the  true  meaning  of  the  Hebrew  term  ;  the  blue  ethereal  sky  is 
the  real  air  or  ether,  blue  above  the  clouds ;  the  heavens  are  the  starry 
space,  for  which  he  uses  this  word,  less  accurately  indeed  than  the 
others,  but  as  the  only  one  available  for  his  meaning. 


C(ELI  ENARRANT. 


159 


fire,  but  now  bearing  fire  in  their  own  bosoms  ;  no  longer 
murmuring  only  when  the  winds  raise  them  or  rocks  divide, 
but  answering  each  other  with  their  own  voices  from  pole  to 
pole  ;  no  longer  restrained  by  established  shores,  and  guided 
through  unchanging  channels,  but  going  forth  at  their  pleas¬ 
ure  like  the  armies  of  the  angels,  and  choosing  their  encamp¬ 
ments  upon  the  heights  of  the  hills  ;  no  longer  hurried  down¬ 
ward  for  ever,  moving  but  to  fall,  nor  lost  in  the  lightless 
accumulation  of  the  abyss,  but  covering  the  east  and  west 
with  the  waving  of  their  wings,  and  robing  the  gloom  of  the 
farther  infinite  with  a  vesture  of  divers  colors,  of  which  the 
threads  are  purple  and  scarlet,  and  the  embroideries  flame. 

9.  This,  I  believe,  is  the  ordinance  of  the  firmament ;  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  midst  of  the  material  nearness  of 
these  heavens  God  means  us  to  acknowledge  His  own  imme¬ 
diate  presence  as  visiting,  judging,  and  blessing  us.  “  The 
earth  shook,  the  heavens  also  dropped,  at  the  presence  of 
God.”  ‘‘He  doth  set  His  bow  in  the  cloud,”  and  thus  re¬ 
news,  in  the  sound  of  every  drooping  swathe  of  rain,  His 
promises  of  everlasting  love.  “  In  them  hath  He  set  a  taber¬ 
nacle  for  the  sun,”  whose  burning  ball,  which,  without  the 
firmament,  would  be  seen  but  as  an  intolerable  and  scorching 
circle  in  the  blackness  of  vacuity,  is  by  that  firmament  sur¬ 
rounded  with  gorgeous  service,  and  tempered  by  mediatorial 
ministries ;  by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  golden  pavement 
is  spread  for  his  chariot  wheels  at  morning  ;  by  the  firmament 
of  clouds  the  temple  is  built  for  his  presence  to  fill  with  light 
it  noon  ;  by  the  firmament  of  clouds  the  purple  veil  is  closed 
it  evening  round  the  sanctuary  of  his  rest ;  by  the  mists  of  the 
firmament  his  implacable  light  is  divided,  and  its  separated 
ierceness  appeased  into  the  soft  blue  that  fills  the  depth  of 
distance  with  its  bloom,  and  the  flush  with  which  the  moun- 
;ains  burn  as  they  drink  the  overflowing  of  the  dayspring, 
find  in  this  tabernacling  of  the  unendurable  sun  with  men, 
lirough  the  shadows  of  the  firmament,  God  would  seem  to 
let  forth  the  stooping  of  His  own  majesty  to  men,  upon  the 
krone  of  the  firmament.  As  the  Creator  of  all  the  worlds, 
,nd  the  inhabitor  of  eternity,  we  cannot  behold  Him  ;  but  as 


160 


C(ELI  ENARRANT. 


the  Judge  of  the  earth  and  the  Preserver  of  men,  those 
heavens  are  indeed  His  dwelling-place.  “  Swear  not,  neither 
by  heaven,  for  it  is  God’s  throne ;  nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is 
His  footstool.”  And  all  those  passings  to  and  fro  of  fruitful 
shower  and  grateful  shade,  and  all  those  visions  of  silver 
palaces  built  about  the  horizon,  and  voices  of  moaning  winds 
and  threatening  thunders,  and  glories  of  colored  robe  and 
cloven  ray,  are  but  to  deepen  in  our  hearts  the  acceptance, 
and  distinctness,  and  dearness  of  the  simple  words,  “  Our 
Father,  which  art  in  heaven.” 


CHAPTER  H. 


THE  CLOUD-BALANCINGS. 

“ Modern  Painters”  Vol.  V,  Part  VII.,  Chap.  I. 

1.  We  have  seen  that  when  the  earth  had  to  be  prepared 
for  the  habitation  of  man,  a  veil,  as  it  were,  of  intermediate 
being  was  spread  between  him  and  its  darkness,  in  which 
were  joined,  in  a  subdued  measure,  the  stability  and  insensi¬ 
bility  of  the  earth,  and  the  passion  and  perishing  of  man¬ 
kind. 

But  the  heavens,  also,  had  to  be  prepared  for  his  habita¬ 
tion. 

Between  their  burning  light — their  deep  vacuity,  and  man, 
as  between  the  earth’s  gloom  of  iron  substance,  and  man,  a 
veil  had  to  be  spread  of  intermediate  being  ;  which  should 
:  appease  the  unendurable  glory  to  the  level  of  human  feeble- 
;  ness,  and  sign  the  changeless  motion  of  the  heavens  with  a 
semblance  of  human  vicissitude. 

Between  the  earth  and  man  arose  the  leaf.  Between  the 
heaven  and  man  came  the  cloud.  His  life  being  partly  as  the 
falling  leaf,  and  partly  as  the  flying  vapor. 

2.  Has  the  reader  any  distinct  idea  of  what  clouds  are  ? 
We  had  some  talk  about  them  long  ago,  and  perhaps  thought 
their  nature,  though  at  that  time  not  clear  to  us,  would  be 
easily  enough  understandable  when  we  put  ourselves  seriously 
to  make  it  out.  Shall  we  begin  with  one  or  two  easiest 
questions  ? 

That  mist  which  lies  in  the  morning  so  softly  in  the  valley, 
level  and  white,  through  which  the  tops  of  the  trees  rise  as  if 
through  an  inundation— why  is  it  so  heavy  ?  and  why  does  it 
lie  so  low,  being  yet  so  thin  and  frail  that  it  will  melt  away 
utterly  into  splendor  of  morning,  when  the  sun  has  shone  on 
11 


162 


GCELI  ENARBANT. 


it  but  a  few  moments  more  ?  Those  colossal  pyramids,  huge 
and  firm,  with  outlines  as  of  rocks,  and  strength  to  bear  the 
beating  of  the  high  sun  full  on  their  fiery  flanks — why  are 
they  so  light — their  bases  high  over  our  heads,  high  over  the 
heads  of  Alps  ?  why  will  these  melt  away,  not  as  the  sun 
rises,  but  as  he  descends ,  and  leave  the  stars  of  twilight  clear, 
while  the  valley  vapor  gains  again  upon  the  earth  like  a 
shroud  ? 

Or  that  ghost  of  a  cloud,  which  steals  by  yonder  clump  of 
pines  ;  nay,  which  does  not  steal  by  them,  but  haunts  them, 
wreathing  yet  round  them,  and  yet — and  yet,  slowly ;  now 
falling  in  a  fair  waved  line  like  a  woman’s  veil ;  now  fading, 
now  gone  ;  we  look  away  for  an  instant,  and  look  back,  and  it 
is  again  there.  What  has  it  to  do  with  that  clump  of  pines, 
that  it  broods  by  them  and  waves  itself  among  their  branches, 
to  and  fro  ?  Has  it  hidden  a  cloudy  treasure  among  the 
moss  at  their  roots,  which  it  watches  thus?  Or  has  some 
strong  enchanter  charmed  it  into  fond  returning,  or  bound  it 
fast  within  those  bars  of  bough  ?  And  yonder  filmy  crescent, 
bent  like  an  archer’s  bow  above  the  snowy  summit,  the  high¬ 
est  of  all  the  hill — that  white  arch  which  never  forms  but 
over  the  supreme  crest — how  is  it  stayed  there,  repelled  ap¬ 
parently  from  the  snow — nowhere  touching  it,  the  clear  sky 
seen  between  it  and  the  mountain  edge,  yet  never  leaving  it — 
poised  as  a  white  bird  hovers  over  its  nest? 

Or  those  war-clouds  that  gather  on  the  horizon,  dragon- 
crested,  tongued  with  fire  ;  how  is  their  barbed  strength 
bridled  ?  what  bits  are  these  they  are  champing  with  their  va¬ 
porous  lips  ;  flinging  off  flakes  of  black  foam  ?  Leagued  levia¬ 
thans  of  the  Sea  of  Heaven,  out  of  their  nostrils  goeth  smoke, 
and  their  eyes  are  like  the  eyelids  of  the  morning  ;  the  sword 
of  him  that  layeth  at  them  cannot  hold  the  spear,  the  dart, 
nor  the  habergeon.  Where  ride  the  captains  of  their  armies  ? 
Where  are  set  the  measures  of  their  march  ?  Fierce  mur- 
murers,  answering  each  other  from  morning  until  evening — 
what  rebuke  is  this  which  has  awed  them  into  peace  ? — what 
hand  has  reined  them  back  by  the  way  by  which  they 
came  ? 


CCELI  ENARRANT. 


163 


3.  I  know  not  if  the  reader  will  think  at  first  that  questions 

like  these  are  easily  answered.  So  far  from  it,  I  rather  be¬ 
lieve  that  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  clouds  never  will  be 
understood  by  us  at  all.  “  Knowest  thou  the  balancings  of 
the  clouds  ?  ”  Is  the  answer  ever  to  be  one  of  pride  ?  “  The 

wondrous  works  of  Him  which  is  perfect  in  knowledge  ?”  Is 
our  knowledge  ever  to  be  so  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  most  discouraging  consequences  of  the 
varied  character  of  this  work  of  mine,  that  I  am  wholly  unable 
to  take  note  of  the  advance  of  modern  science.  What  has 
conclusively  been  discovered  or  observed  about  clouds  I  know 
not ;  but  by  the  chance  inquiry  possible  to  me  I  find  no  book 
which  fairly  states  the  difficulties  of  accounting  for  even  the 
ordinary  aspects  of  the  sky.  I  shall,  therefore,  be  able  in  this 
section  to  do  little  more  than  suggest  inquiries  to  the  reader, 
putting  the  subject  in  a  clear  form  for  him.  All  men  ac¬ 
customed  to  investigation  will  confirm  me  in  saying  that  it  is 
a  great  step  when  we  are  personally  quite  certain  what  we  do 
not  know. 

4.  First,  then,  I  believe  we  do  not  know  what  makes  clouds 
float.  Clouds  are  water,  in  some  fine  form  or  another ;  but 
water  is  heavier  than  air,  and  the  finest  form  you  can  give  a 
heavy  thing  will  not  make  it  float  in  a  light  thing.*  On  it, 
yes,  as  a  boat  ;  but  in  it,  no.  Clouds  are  not  boats,  nor  boat¬ 
shaped,  and  they  float  in  the  air,  not  on  the  top  of  it.  “  Nay, 
but  though  unlike  boats,  may  they  not  be  like  feathers  ?  If 
out  of  quill  substance  there  may  be  constructed  eider-down, 
and  out  of  vegetable  tissue,  thistle-down,  both  buoyant  enough 
for  a  time,  surely  of  water-tissue  may  be  constructed  also 
water-down,  which  will  be  buoyant  enough  for  all  cloudy  pur¬ 
poses.'’  Not  so.  Throw  out  your  eider  plumage  in  a  calm 
day,  and  it  will  all  come  settling  to  the  ground — slowly  indeed, 


*  [Compare  tlie  old  note  to  §  6  :  but  I  had  not,  when  I  wrote  it,  enough 
reflected  on  the  horrible  buoyancy  of  smoke,  nor  did  I  know  over  what 
spaces  volcanic  ashes  were  diffusible.  Will  any  of  my  scientific  friends 
uow  state  for  me  the  approximate  weight  and  bulk  of  a  particle  of  dust 
of  any  solid  substance  which  would  be  buoyant  in  air  of  given  density  ?] 


104: 


OCELI  ENABRANT. 


to  aspect ;  but  practically  so  fast  that  all  our  finest  clouds 
would  be  here  in  a  heap  about  our  ears  in  an  hour  or  two,  if 
they  were  only  made  of  water  feathers.  “But  may  they  not 
be  quill  feathers,  and  have  air  inside  them  ?  May  not  all  their 
particles  be  minute  little  balloons?” 

A  balloon  only  floats  when  the  air  inside  it  is  either  specifi¬ 
cally,  or  by  heating,  lighter  than  the  air  it  floats  in.  If  the 
cloud-feathers  had  warm  air  inside  their  quills,  a  cloud  would 
be  warmer  than  the  air  about  it,  which  it  is  not  (I  believe). 
And  if  the  cloud-feathers  had  hydrogen  inside  their  quills,  a 
cloud  would  be  unwholesome  for  breathing,  which  it  is  not — 
at  least  so  it  seems  to  me. 

“  But  may  they  not  have  nothing  inside  their  quills  ?  ” 
Then  they  would  rise,  as  bubbles  do  through  water,  just  as 
certainly  as,  if  they  were  solid  feathers,  they  would  fall.  All 
our  clouds  would  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  air,  and  swim  in 
eddies  of  cloud -foam. 

“  But  is  not  that  just  what  they  do  ?  ”  No.  They  float  at 
different  heights,  and  with  definite  forms,  in  the  body  of  the 
air  itself.  If  they  rose  like  foam,  the  sky  on  a  cloudy  day 
would  look  like  a  very  large  flat  glass  of  champagne  seen  from 
below,  with  a  stream  of  bubbles  (or  clouds)  going  up  as  fast 
as  they  could  to  a  flat  foam-ceiling. 

“But  may  they  not  be  just  so  nicely  mixed  out  of  some¬ 
thing  and  nothing,  as  to  float  where  they  are  wanted  ?  ” 

Yes  :  that  is  just  what  they  not  only  may,  but  must  be  ;  only 
this  way  of  mixing  something  and  nothing  is  the  very  thing 
I  want  to  explain  or  have  explained,  and  cannot  do  it,  nor  get 
it  done. 

5.  Except  thus  far.  It  is  conceivable  that  minute  hollow 
spherical  globules  might  be  formed  of  water,  in  which  the  en¬ 
closed  vacuity  just  balanced  the  weight  of  the  enclosing  water, 
and  that  the  arched  sphere  formed  by  the  watery  film  was 
strong  enough  to  prevent  the  pressure  of  the  atmosphere  from 
breaking  it  in.  Such  a  globule  would  float  like  a  balloon  at 
the  height  in  the  atmosphere  where  the  equipoise  between  the 
vacuum  it  enclosed,  and  its  own  excess  of  weight  above  that 
of  the  air,  was  exact.  It  would,  probably,  approach  its  com- 


GCELI  ENA  URANT. 


165 


panion  globules  by  reciprocal  attraction,  and  form  aggrega¬ 
tions  which  might  be  visible. 

This  is,  I  believe,  the  view  usually  taken  by  meteorologists. 
I  state  it  as  a  possibility,  to  be  taken  into  account  in  examin¬ 
ing  the  question — a  possibility  confirmed  by  the  scriptural 
words  which  I  have  taken  for  the  title  of  this  chapter. 

6.  Nevertheless,  I  state  it  as  a  possibility  only,  not  seeing 
how  any  known  operation  of  physical  law  could  explain  the 
formation  of  such  molecules.  This,  however,  is  not  the  only 
difficulty.  Whatever  shape  the  water  is  thrown  into,  it  seems 
at  first  improbable  that  it  should  lose  its  property  of  wetness. 
Minute  division  of  rain,  as  in  “Scotch  mist,”  makes  it  capable 
of  floating  farther,*  or  floating  up  and  down  a  little,  just  as 
dust  will  float,  though  pebbles  will  not ;  or  gold-leaf,  though 
a  sovereign  will  not ;  but  minutely  divided  rain  wets  as  much 
as  any  other  kind,  whereas  a  cloud,  partially  always,  some- 


*  The  buoyancy  of  solid  bodies  of  a  given  specific  gravity,  in  a  given 
fluid,  depends,  first  on  their  size,  then  on  their  forms. 

First,  on  their  size  ;  that  is  to  say,  on  the  proportion  of  the  magnitude 
of  the  object  (irrespective  of  the  distribution  of  its  particles)  to  the 
magnitude  of  the  particles  of  the  air. 

Thus,  a  grain  of  sand  is  buoyant  in  wind,  but  a  large  stone  is  not ; 
and  pebbles  and  sand  are  buoyant  in  water  in  proportion  to  their  small¬ 
ness,  fine  dust  taking  long  to  sink,  while  a  large  stone  sinks  at  once. 
Thus,  we  see  that  water  may  be  arranged  in  drops  of  any  magnitude, 
from  the  largest  rain-drop,  about  the  size  of  a  large  pea,  to  an  atom  so 
small  as  not  to  be  separately  visible,  the  smallest  rain  passing  gradually 
into  mist.  Of  these  drops  of  different  sizes  (supposing  the  strength  of 
the  wind  the  same),  the  largest  fall  fastest,  the  smaller  drops  are  more 
buoyant,  and  the  small  misty  rain  floats  about  like  a  cloud,  as  often  up 
as  down,  so  that  an  umbrella  is  useless  in  it ;  though  in  a  heavy  thunder¬ 
storm,  if  there  is  no  wind,  one  may  stand  gathered  up  under  an  um¬ 
brella  without  a  drop  touching  the  feet. 

Secondly,  buoyancy  depends  on  the  amount  of  surface  which  a 
given  weight  of  the  substance  exposes  to  the  resistance  of  the  substance 
it  floats  in.  Thus,  gold-leaf  is  in  a  high  degree  buoyant,  while  the 
same  quantity  of  gold  in  a  compact  grain  would  fall  like  a  shot ;  and  a 
feather  is  buoyant,  though  the  same  quantity  of  animal  matter  in  a 
compact  form  would  be  as  heavy  as  a  little  stone.  A  slate  blows  far 
from  a  house-top,  while  a  brick  falls  vertically,  or  nearly  so. 


166 


CCELI  ENARRANT. 


times  entirely,  loses  its  power  of  moistening.  Some  low 
clouds  look,  when  you  are  in  them,  as  if  they  were  made  of 
specks  of  dust,  like  short  hair  ;  and  these  clouds  are  entirely 
dry.  And  also  many  clouds  will  wet  some  substances,  but 
not  others.  So  that  we  must  grant  further,  if  we  are  to  be 
happy  in  our  theory,  that  the  spherical  molecules  are  held 
together  by  an  attraction  which  prevents  their  adhering  to 
any  foreign  body,  or  perhaps  ceases  only  under  some  peculiar 
electric  conditions. 

7.  The  question  remains,  even  supposing  their  production 
accounted  for  —  What  intermediate  states  of  water  may 
exist  between  these  spherical  hollow  molecules  and  pure 
vapor  ? 

Has  the  reader  ever  considered  the  relations  of  commonest 
forms  of  volatile  substance?  The  invisible  particles  which 
cause  the  scent  of  a  rose-leaf,  how  minute,  how  multitudinous, 
passing  richly  away  into  the  air  continually  !  The  visible 
cloud  of  frankincense — why  visible?  Is  it  in  consequence  of 
the  greater  quantity,  or  larger  size,  of  the  particles,  and  how 
does  the  heat  act  in  throwing  them  off  in  this  quantity,  or  of 
this  size  ? 

Ask  the  same  questions  respecting  water.  It  dries,  that  is, 
becomes  volatile,  invisibly,  at  (any  ?)  temperature.  Snow 
dries,  as  water  does.  Under  increase  of  heat,  it  volatilizes 
faster,  so  as  to  become  dimly  visible  in  large  mass,  as  a  heat- 
haze.  It  reaches  boiling-point,  then  becomes  entirely  visible. 
But  compress  it,  so  that  no  air  shall  get  between  the  watery 
particles — it  is  invisible  again.  At  the  first  issuing  from  the 
steam-pipe  the  steam  is  transparent ;  but  opaque,  or  visible, 
as  it  diffuses  itself.  The  water  is  indeed  closer,  because 
cooler,  in  that  diffusion ;  but  more  air  is  between  its  particles. 
Then  this  very  question  of  visibility  is  an  endless  one,  waver¬ 
ing  between  form  of  substance  and  action  of  light.  The 
clearest  (or  least  visible)  stream  becomes  brightly  opaque  by 
more  minute  division  in  its  foam,  and  the  clearest  dew  in 
hoar-frost.  Dust,  unperceived  in  shade,  becomes  constantly 
visible  in  sunbeam  ;  and  watery  vapor  in  the  atmosphere, 
which  is  itself  opaque,  when  there  is  promise  of  fine  weather, 


col'li  m Ann  ant.  167 

becomes  exquisitely  transparent ;  and  (questionably)  blue, 
when  it  is  going  to  rain. 

8.  Questionably  blue  ;  for  besides  knowing  very  little  about 
water,  we  know  what,  except  by  courtesy,  must,  I  think,  be 
called  Nothing — about  air.  Is  it  the  watery  vapor,  or  the 
air  itself,  which  is  blue  ?  Are  neither  blue,  but  only  white, 
producing  blue  when  seen  over  dark  spaces  ?  If  either  blue, 
or  white,  why,  when  crimson  is  their  commanded  dress,  are 
the  most  distant  clouds  erimsonest  ?  Clouds  close  to  us  may 
be  blue,  but  far  off,  golden — a  strange  result,  if  the  air  is  blue. 
And  again,  if  blue,  why  are  rays  that  come  through  large 
spaces  of  it  red ;  and  that  Alp,  or  anything  else  that  catches 
far-away  light,  why  colored  red  at  dawn  and  sunset?  No 
one  knows,  I  believe.  It  is  true  that  many  substances,  as 
opal,  are  blue,  or  green,  by  reflected  light,  yellow  by  trans¬ 
mitted  ;  but  air,  if  blue  at  all,  is  blue  always  by  transmitted 
light.  I  hear  of  a  wonderful  solution  of  nettles,  or  other 
unlovely  herb,  which  is  green  when  shallow — red  when  deep. 
Perhaps  some  day,  as  the  motion  of  the  heavenly  bodies  by 
help  of  an  apple,  their  light  by  help  of  a  nettle,  may  be  ex¬ 
plained  to  mankind. 

9.  But  further  :  these  questions  of  volatility,  and  visibility, 
and  hue,  are  all  complicated  with  those  of  shape.  How  is  a 
cloud  outlined  ?  Granted  whatever  you  choose  to  ask  con¬ 
cerning  its  material,  or  its  aspect,  its  loftiness,  and  luminous¬ 
ness- — how  of  its  limitation  ?  What  hews  it  into  a  heap,  or 
spins  it  into  a  web  ?  Cold  is  usually  shapeless,  I  suppose,  ex¬ 
tending  over  large  spaces  equally,  or  with  gradual  diminution. 
You  cannot  have,  in  the  open  air,  angles,  and  wedges,  and 
coils,  and  cliffs  of  cold.  Yet  the  vapor  stops  suddenly,  sharp 
and  steep  as  a  rock,  or  thrusts  itself  across  the  gates  of  heaven 
in  likeness  of  a  brazen  bar ;  or  braids  itself  in  and  out,  and 
across  and  across,  like  a  tissue  of  tapestry  ;  or  falls  into  ripples, 
like  sand ;  or  into  waving  shreds  and  tongues,  as  fire.  On 
what  anvils  and  wheels  is  the  vapor  pointed,  twisted,  ham¬ 
mered,  whirled,  as  the  potter’s  clay  ?  By  what  hands  is  the 
incense  of  the  sea  built  up  into  domes  of  marble  ? 

And,  lastly,  all  these  questions  respecting  substance,  and 


168 


CJCELI  ENARRANT. 


aspect,  and  shape,  and  line,  and  division,  are  involved  with 
others  as  inscrutable,  concerning  action.  The  curves  in  which 
clouds  move  are  unknown — nay,  the  very  method  of  their 
motion,  or  apparent  motion,  how  far  it  is  by  change  of  place, 
how  far  by  appearance  in  one  place  and  vanishing  from 
another.  And  these  questions  about  movement  lead  partly 
far  away  into  high  mathematics,  where  I  cannot  follow  them, 
and  partly  into  theories  concerning  electricity  and  infinite 
space,  where  I  suppose  at  present  no  one  can  follow  them. 

What,  then,  is  the  use  of  asking  the  questions  ? 

For  my  own  part,  I  enjoy  the  mystery,  and  perhaps  the 
reader  may.  I  think  lie  ought.  He  should  not  be  less  grate¬ 
ful  for  summer  rain,  or  see  less  beauty  in  the  clouds  of  morn¬ 
ing,  because  they  come  to  prove  him  with  hard  questions  ;  to 
which,  perhaps,  if  we  look  close  at  the  heavenly  scroll,*  we 
may  find  also  a  syllable  or  two  of  answer  illuminated  here  and 
there. 


*  There  is  a  beautiful  passage  in  Sartor  Resartus  concerning  this  old 
Hebrew  scroll,  in  its  deeper  meanings,  and  the  child’s  watching  it, 
though  long  illegible  for  him,  yet  “with  an  eye  to  the  gilding.”  It 
signifies  in  a  word  or  two  nearly  all  that  is  to  be  said  about  clouds. — (Not 
quite.  J.  R.,  1884.) 


NOTES 


ON  SOME  OF 

THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 

EXHIBITED  IN  THE  ROOMS  OF  THE 

ROYAL  ACADEMY, 


1875. 


PREFACE. 


It  is  now  just  twenty  years  since  I  wrote  the  first  number 
of  these  notes  ;  and  fifteen  since  they  were  discontinued.  I 
have  no  intention  of  renewing  the  series,  unless  occasionally, 
should  accident  detain  me  in  London  during  the  spring.  But 
this  year,  for  many  reasons,  it  seemed  to  me  imperatively 
proper  to  say  as  much  as  is  here  said. 

And  that  the  temper  of  the  saying  may  not,  so  far  as  I  can 
prevent  it,  be  mistaken,  I  will  venture  to  ask  my  reader  to 
hear,  and  trust  that  he  will  believe,  thus  much  concerning 
myself.  Among  various  minor,  but  collectively  sufficient, 
reasons  for  the  cessation  of  these  notes,  one  of  the  chief  was 
the  exclamation  of  a  young  artist,  moving  in  good  society — 

authentically,  I  doubt  not,  reported  to  me — “D - the 

fellow,  why  doesn’t  he  back  his  friends  ?  ”  The  general 
want  in  the  English  mind  of  any  abstract  conception  of 
justice,  and  the  substitution  for  it  of  the  idea  of  fidelity  to  a 
party,  as  the  first  virtue  of  public  action,  had  never  struck 
me  so  vividly  before  ;  and  thenceforward  it  seemed  to  me  use¬ 
less,  so  far  as  artists  were  concerned,  to  continue  criticism 
which  they  would  esteem  dishonorable,  unless  it  was  false. 

But  Fortune  has  so  sternly  reversed  her  wheel  during  these 
recent  years,  that  I  am  more  likely  now  to  be  accused  of  mal¬ 
ice  than  of  equity  ;  and  I  am  therefore  at  the  pains  to  beg 
the  honest  reader  to  believe  that,  having  perhaps  as  much 
pleasure  as  other  people,  both  in  backing  my  friends  and 
fronting  my  enemies,  I  have  never  used,  and  shall  never  use, 
my  power  of  criticism  to  such  end  ;  but  that  I  write  now,  and 
have  always  written,  so  far  as  I  am  able,  what  may  show  that 


172 


PREFACE . 


there  is  a  fixed  criterion  of  separation  between  right  art  and 
wrong ;  that  no  opinion,  no  time,  and  no  circumstances  can 
ever  in  one  jot  change  this  relation  of  their  Good  and  Evil ; 
and  that  it  would  be  pleasant  for  the  British  public  to  recog¬ 
nize  the  one,  and  wise  in  them  to  eschew  the  other. 


Herne  Hill,  May  23,  1875. 


NOTES,  ETC. 


Before  looking  at  any  single  picture,  let  us  understand  the 
scope  and  character  of  the  Exhibition  as  a  whole.  The  Royal 
Academy  of  England,  in  its  annual  publication,  is  now  noth¬ 
ing  more  than  a  large  colored  Illustrated  Times  folded  in 
saloons  : — the  splendidest  May  Number  of  the  Graphic ,  shall 
we  call  it  ?  That  is  to  say,  it  is  a  certain  quantity  of  pleasant, 
but  imperfect,  “illustration  ”  of  passing  events,  mixed  with  as 
much  gossip  of  the  past,  and  tattle  of  the  future,  as  may  be 
probably  agreeable  to  a  populace  supremely  ignorant  of  the 
one,  and  reckless  of  the  other. 

Supremely  ignorant,  I  say  —  ignorant,  that  is,  on  the  lofty 
ground  of  their  supremacy  in  useless  knowledge. 

For  instance  :  the  actual  facts  which  Shakespeare  knew 
about  Rome  were,  in  number  and  accuracy,  compared  to  those 
which  M.  Alma-Tadema  knows,  as  the  pictures  of  a  child’s 
first  story-book,  compared  to  Smith’s  “  Dictionary  of  Antiqui¬ 
ties.” 

But  when  Shakespeare  wrote, 

“  The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 

The  Moon  of  Rome  ;  chaste  as  the  icicle 
That’s  curdled  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow. 

And  hangs  on  Dian’s  temple,” 

he  knew  Rome  herself,  to  the  heart  ;  and  M.  Tadema,  after 
reading  his  Smith’s  “  Dictionary  ”  through  from  A  to  Z,  knows 
nothing  of  her  but  her  shadow  ;  and  that  cast  at  sunset. 

Yet  observe,  in  saying  that  Academy  work  is  now  nothing 
more,  virtually,  than  cheap  colored  woodcut,  I  do  not  mean 
to  depreciate  the  talent  employed  in  it.  Our  public  press  is 


174  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


supported  by  an  ingenuity  and  skill  in  rapid  art  unrivalled 
at  any  period  of  history  ;  nor  have  I  ever  been  so  humbled, 
or  astonished,  by  the  mightiest  work  of  Tintoret,  Turner,  or 
Velasquez,  as  I  was  one  afternoon  last  year,  in  watching,  in 
the  Dudley  gallery,  two  ordinary  workmen  for  a  daily  news¬ 
paper,  finishing  their  drawings  on  the  blocks  by  gaslight, 
against  time. 

Nay,  not  in  skill  only,  but  in  pretty  sentiment,  our  press 
illustration,  in  its  higher  ranks,  far  surpasses — or  indeed,  in 
that  department  finds  no  rivalship  in — the  schools  of  classical 
art ;  and  it  happens  curiously  that  the  only  drawing  of  which 
the  memory  remains  with  me  as  a  possession,  out  of  the  old 
water-color  exhibition  of  this  year  —  Mrs.  Allingham’s 
“  Young  Customers  ” — should  be,  not  only  by  an  accomplished 
designer  of  woodcut,  but  itself  the  illustration  of  a  popular 
story.  The  drawing,  with  whatever  temporary  purpose  exe¬ 
cuted,  is  forever  lovely ;  a  thing  which  I  believe  Gains¬ 
borough  would  have  given  one  of  his  own  pictures  for — old- 
fashioned  as  red-tipped  daisies  are — and  more  precious  than 
rubies. 

And  I  am  conscious  of,  and  deeply  regret,  the  inevitable 
warp  which  my  own  lately  exclusive  training  under  the  elder 
schools  gives  to  my  estimate  of  this  current  art  of  the  day ; 
and  submissively  bear  the  blame  due  to  my  sullen  refusal  of 
what  good  is  offered  me  in  the  railroad  station,  because  I  can¬ 
not  find  in  it  what  I  found  in  the  Ducal  Palace.  And  I  may 
be  permitted  to  say  this  much,  in  the  outset,  in  apology  for 
myself,  that  I  determined  on  writing  this  number  of  Academy 
notes,  simply  because  I  was  so  much  delighted  with  Mr. 
Leslie’s  School — Mr.  Leighton’s  little  Fatima,  Mr.  Hook’s 
Hearts  of  Oak,  and  Mr.  Couldery’s  kittens — that  I  thought  I 
should  be  able  to  write  an  entirely  good-humored,  and  there¬ 
fore,  in  all  likelihood,  practically  useful,  sketch  of  the  socially 
pleasant  qualities  of  modern  English  painting,  which  were 
not  enough  acknowledged  in  my  former  essays. 

As  I  set  myself  to  the  work,  and  examined  more  important 
pictures,  my  humor  changed,  though  much  against  ray  will. 
Not  more  reluctantly  the  son  of  Beor  found  his  utterances 


IN  TEE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


175 


become  benedictory,  than  I  mine — the  reverse.  But  the  need 
of  speaking,  if  not  the  service  (for  too  often  we  can  help 
least  where  need  is  most),  is  assuredly  greater  than  if  I  could 
have  spoken  smooth  things  without  ruffling  anywhere  the 
calm  of  praise. 

Popular  or  classic — temporary  or  eternal — all  good  art  is 
more  or  less  didactic.  My  artist-adversaries  rage  at  me  for 
saying  so  ;  but  the  gayest  of  them  cannot  help  being  momen¬ 
tarily  grave  ;  nor  the  emptiest-headed  occasionally  instruc¬ 
tive  ;  and  whatever  work  any  of  them  do,  that  is  indeed 
honorable  to  themselves,  is  also  intellectually  helpful,  no  less 
than  entertaining,  to  others.  And  it  will  be  the  surest  way 
of  estimating  the  intrinsic  value  of  the  art  of  this  year,  if  we 
proceed  to  examine  it  in  the  several  provinces  which  its 
didactic  functions  occupy  ;  and  collect  the  sum  of  its  teach¬ 
ing  on  the  subjects — which  will,  I  think,  sufficiently  embrace 
its  efforts  in  every  kind — of  Theology,  History,  Biography, 
Natural  History,  Landscape,  and  as  the  end  of  all,  Policy. 


THEOLOGY. 

584.  Dedicated  to  all  the  Churches.  (G.  F.  Watts,  R.A.) 

Here,  at  least,  is  one  picture  meant  to  teach ;  nor  failing  of 
its  purpose,  if  we  read  it  rightly.  Very  beautiful,  it  might 
have  been  ;  and  is,  in  no  mean  measure ;  but  as  years  pass 
by,  the  artist  concedes  to  himself,  more  and  more,  the  privi¬ 
lege  which  none  but  the  feeble  should  seek,  of  substituting 
the  sublimity  of  mystery  for  that  of  absolute  majesty  of 
form.  The  relation  between  this  gray  and  soft  cloud  of  vis¬ 
ionary  power,  and  the  perfectly  substantial,  bright,  and  near 
I  presence  of  the  saints,  angels,  or  Deities  of  early  Christian 
art,  involves  questions  of  too  subtle  interest  to  be  followed 
here  ;  but  in  the  essential  force  of  it,  belongs  to  the  inevi¬ 
table  expression,  in  each  period,  of  the  character  of  its  own 
;  faith.  The  Christ  of  the  13th  century  was  vividly  present  to 
its  thoughts,  and  dominant  over  its  acts,  as  a  God  manifest  in 


176  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


the  flesh,  well  pleased  in  the  people  to  whom  He  came  ;  while 
ours  is  either  forgotten  ;  or  seen,  by  those  who  yet  trust  in 
Him,  only  as  a  mourning  and  departing  Ghost. 

129.  Ezekiel’s  Vision.  (P.  F.  Poole,  RA.) 

Though  this  design  cannot  for  a  moment  be  compared 
with  the  one  just  noticed,  in  depth  of  feeling,  there  is  yet,  as 
there  has  been  always  in  Mr.  Poole’s  work,  some  acknowl¬ 
edgment  of  a  supernatural  influence  in  physical  phenomena, 
which  gives  a  nobler  character  to  his  storm-painting  than  can 
belong  to  any  merely  literal  study  of  the  elements.  But  the 
piece  is  chiefly  interesting  for  its  parallelism  with  that  “dedi¬ 
cated  to  all  the  churches,”  in  effacing  the  fearless  realities  of 
the  elder  creed  among  the  confused  speculations  of  our 
modern  one.  The  beasts  in  Raphael’s  vision  of  Ezekiel  are 
as  solid  as  the  cattle  in  Smitlifield ;  while  here,  if  traceable  at 
all  in  the  drift  of  the  storm-cloud  (which,  it  is  implied,  was 
all  that  the  prophet  really  saw),  their  animal  character  can 
only  be  accepted  in  polite  compliance  with  the  prophetic  im¬ 
pression,  as  the  weasel  by  Polonius.  And  my  most  Polonian 
courtesy  fails  in  deciphering  the  second  of  the  four — not- 
living — creatures. 

218.  Rachel  and  her  Flock.  (F.  Goodall,  RA.) 

This  is  one  of  the  pictures  which,  with  such  others  as  Hol¬ 
man  Hunt’s  “  Scapegoat,”  Millais’  “  Dove  Returning  to  the 
Ark,”  etc.,  the  public  owe  primarily  to  the  leading  genius  of 
Dante  Rossetti,  the  founder,  and  for  some  years  the  vital 
force,  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  school.  He  was  the  first  assertor 
in  painting,  as  I  believe  I  was  myself  in  art-literature  (Gold¬ 
smith  and  Moliere  having  given  the  first  general  statements 
of  it),  of  the  great  distinctive  principle  of  that  school,  that 
things  should  be  painted  as  they  probably  did  look  and 
happen,  and  not  as,  by  rules  of  art  developed  under  Raphael, 
Correggio,  and  Michael  Angelo,  they  might  be  supposed 
gracefully,  deliciously,  or  sublimely  to  have  happened. 

The  adoption  of  this  principle  by  good  and  great  men,  pro¬ 
duces  the  grandest  art  possible  in  the  world ;  the  adoption  of 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


177 


it  by  vile  and  foolish  men — very  vile  and  foolish  art ;  yet  not 
so  entirely  nugatory  as  imitations  of  Raphael  or  Correggio 
would  be  by  persons  of  the  same  calibre  :  an  intermediate  and 
large  class  of  pictures  have  been  produced  by  painters  of  aver¬ 
age  powers  ;  mostly  of  considerable  value,  but  which  fall 
again  into  two  classes,  according  to  the  belief  of  the  artists  in 
the  truth,  and  understanding  of  the  dignity  of  the  subjects 
they  endeavor  to  illustrate,  or  their  opposite  degree  of  incre¬ 
dulity  and  materialistic  vulgarism  of  interpretation. 

The  picture  before  us  belongs  to  the  higher  class,  but  is  not 
a  fine  example  of  it.  We  cannot  tell  from  it  whether  Mr. 
Goodall  believes  Rachel  to  have  wept  over  Ramah  from  her 
throne  in  heaven  ;  but  at  least  we  gather  from  it  some  sugges¬ 
tion  of  what  she  must  have  looked  like,  when  she  was  no 
more  than  a  Syrian  shepherdess. 

That  she  was  a  very  beautiful  shepherdess,  so  that  her  lover 
thought  years  of  waiting  but  as  days,  for  the  love  he  bore  to 
her,  Mr.  Goodall  has  scarcely  succeeded  in  representing.  And 
on  the  whole  he  wrould  have  measured  his  powers  more  rea¬ 
sonably  in  contenting  himself  with  painting  a  Yorkshire 
shepherdess  instead  of  a  Syrian  one.*  Like  everybody  except 
myself — he  has  been  in  the  East.  If  that  is  the  appearance  of 
the  new  moon  in  the  East,  I  am  well  enough  content  to  guide, 
and  gild,  the  lunacies  of  my  declining  years  by  the  light  of 
the  old  western  one. 

518.  Julian  the  Apostate,  presiding,  etc.  (E.  Armytage,  R.A.) 

This,  I  presume,  is  a  modern  enlightened  improvement  on 
the  Disputa  del  Sacramento.  The  English  Church  is  to  be 
congratulated  on  the  education  she  gives  her  artists.  Fum¬ 
bling  with  sham  Gothic  penny  tracts,  and  twopenny  Script¬ 
ure  prints,  among  the  embers  of  reverence  and  sacred  life 
that  yet  linger  on  from  the  soul  of  ancient  days,  she  holds  her 
own,  in  outward  appearance  at  least,  among  our  simple  coun- 
- - - — — - - 

*  Compare,  however,  at  once,  582,  which  is,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
(honorably  complete  and  scholastic  life-size  figure  in  the  rooms,  with 
well-cast,  and  unaffectedly  well-painted,  drapery. 

12 


178  NOTES  ON  TIIE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


try  villages  ;  and,  in  our  more  ignorant  manufacturing  cen¬ 
tres,  contentedly  enamels  the  service  of  Mammon  with  the 
praise  of  God.  But  in  the  capital  of  England — here,  on  her 
Vatican  hill  above  St.  Peter’s  church,  and  beside  St.  Paul’s — 
this  is  the  testimony  she  wins  from  art,  as  compared  with  the 
councils  of  Fathers,  and  concourses  of  Saints,  which  poor  dark- 
minded  Italy  once  loved  to  paint.  Mr.  Armytage,  however,  has 
not  completed  his  satire  with  subtlety  ;  he  knows  the  higher 
virtue  of  sectarians  as  little  as  Gibbon  knew  those  of  J ulian,* 
whose  sincere  apostasy  was  not  the  act  of  a  soul  which  could 
“  enjoy  the  agreeable  spectacle”  of  vile  dispute  among  any 
men — least  of  all,  among  those  whom  he  had  once  believed 
messengers  of  Christ. 

1293 — 1295.  Terra-cottas,  representing,  etc.  (S.  Tin  worth.) 

Full  of  fire  and  zealous  faculty,  breaking  its  way  through 
all  conventionalism  to  such  truth  as  it  can  conceive  ;  able  also 
to  conceive  far  more  than  can  be  rightly  expressed  on  this 
scale.  And,  after  all  the  labors  of  past  art  on  the  Life  of 
Christ,  here  is  an  English  workman  fastening,  with  more  de¬ 
cision  than  I  recollect  in  any  of  them,  on  the  gist  of  the  sin  of 
the  Jews,  and  their  rulers,  in  the  choice  of  Barabbas,  and 
making  the  physical  fact  of  contrast  between  the  man  released, 
and  the  man  condemned,  clearly  visible.  We  must  receive  it, 
I  suppose,  as  a  flash  of  really  prophetic  intelligence  on  the 
question  of  Universal  Suffrage. 

These  bas-reliefs  are  the  most  earnest  work  in  the  Academy, 
next  to  Mr.  Boehm’s  study  of  Carlyle.  But  how  it  happens 
that  after  millions  of  money  have  been  spent  in  the  machinery 
of  art  education  at  Kensington,  an  ornamental  designer  of  so 
high  faculty  as  this  one,  should  never  in  his  life  have  found  a 
human  being  able  to  explain  to  him  the  first  principles  of  re¬ 
lief,  or  show  him  the  difference  between  decorative  foliage- 
sculpture,  and  Norman  hatchet-work — I  must  leave  the  Ken¬ 
sington  authorities  to  explain  ;  for  it  passes  all  my  capacities 
of  conjecture,  and  all  my  hitherto  experience  of  the  costly 


*  £>ee  note  on  page  OQO* 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


179 


and  colossal  public  institution  of — Nothing — out  of  which,  to 
wise  men,  as  here,  can  come  nothing  ;  but  to  fools  everywhere^ 
— worse  than  nothing.  Kensington  has  flattened  its  thousands 
of  weak  students  into  machine  pattern-papers  :  here,  it  had 
a  true  man  to  deal  with  ;  and  for  all  he  has  learned  of  his 
business,  he  might  as  well  have  lived  in  South  Australia. 


HISTORY. 

26.  The  Sculpture  Gallery.  (L.  Alma-Tadema.) 

This,  I  suppose,  we  must  assume  to  be  the  principal  histori¬ 
cal  piece  of  the  year ;  a  work  showing  artistic  skill  and  classic 
learning,  both  in  high  degree.  But  both  parallel  in  their 
method  of  selection.  The  artistic  skill  has  succeeded  with  all 
its  objects  in  the  degree  of  their  unimportance.  The  piece 
of  silver  plate  is  painted  best ;  the  griffin  bas-relief  it  stands  on, 
second  best ;  the  statue  of  the  empress  worse  than  the  griffins, 
and  the  living  personages  worse  than  the  statue.  I  do  not 
know  what  feathers  the  fan  with  the  frightful  mask  in  the 
handle,  held  by  the  nearest  lady,  is  supposed  to  be  made  of ; 
to  a  simple  spectator  they  look  like  peacock's,  without  the 
eyes.  And,  indeed,  the  feathers,  under  which  the  motto  “  I 
serve”  of  French  art  seems  to  be  written  in  these  days,  are,  I 
think,  very  literally,  all  feather  and  no  eyes — the  Raven’s 
feather  to  wit,  of  Sy corax.  The  selection  of  the  subject  is 
similarly — one  might  say,  filamentous — of  the  extremity,  in¬ 
stead  of  the  centre.  The  old  French  Republicans,  reading  of 
Rome,  chose  such  events  to  illustrate  her  history,  as  the  battle 
of  Romulus  with  the  Sabines,  the  vow  of  the  Horatii,  or  the 
self-martyrdom  of  Lucretia.  The  modern  Republican  sees  in 
!  the  Rome  he  studies  so  profoundly,  only  a  central  establish¬ 
ment  for  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  imitation-Greek  articles 
of  virth. 

The  execution  is  dextrous,  but  more  with  mechanical  steadi¬ 
ness  of  practice  than  innate  fineness  of  nerve.  It  is  impos¬ 
sible,  however,  to  say  how  much  the  personal  nervous  faculty 


180  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


of  an  artist  of  this  calibre  is  paralyzed  by  his  education  in 
schools  which  I  could  not  characterize  in  my  Oxford  inaugural 
lectures  otherwise  than  as  the  “  schools  of  clay,”  in  which  he  is 
never  shown  what  Venetians  or  Florentines  meant  by  “  paint¬ 
ing,”  and  allowed  to  draw  his  flesh  steadily  and  systematically 
with  shadows  of  charcoal,  and  lights  of  cream -soap,  without 
ever  considering  whether  there  would  be  any  reflections  in  the 
one,  or  any  flush  of  life  in  the  other.  The  head  on  the  ex¬ 
treme  left  is  exceptionally  good  ;  but  who  ever  saw  a  woman’s 
neck  and  hand  blue-black  under  reflection  from  white  drapery, 
as  they  are  in  the  nearer  figure  ?  It  is  well  worth  while  to  go 
straight  from  this  picture  to  the  two  small  studies  by  Mr. 
Albert  Moore,  356  and  357,  which  are  consummately  artistic 
and  scientific  work  :  examine  them  closely,  and  with  patience  ; 
the  sofa  and  basket  especially,  in  357,  with  a  lens  of  moderate 
power  ;  and,  by  way  of  a  lesson  in  composition,  hide  in  this 
picture  the  little  honeysuckle  ornament  above  the  head,  and 
the  riband  hanging  over  the  basket,  and  see  what  becomes  of 
everything  1  Or  try  the  effect  of  concealing  the  yellow  flower 
in  the  hair,  in  the  “flower  walk.”  And  for  comparison  with 
the  elementary  method  of  M.  Tadema,  look  at  the  blue  reflec¬ 
tion  on  the  chin  in  this  figure  ;  at  the  reflection  of  the  warm 
brick  wall  on  its  right  arm  ;  and  at  the  general  modes  of  un¬ 
affected  relief  by  which  the  extended  left  arm  in  "  Pansies  ”  de¬ 
taches  itself  from  the  background.  And  you  ought  after¬ 
ward,  if  you  have  eye  for  color,  never  more  to  mistake  a  tinted 
drawing  for  a  painting. 

233.  The  Festival.  (E.  J.  Poynter,  A.) 

I  wonder  how  long  Mr.  Poynter  thinks  a  young  lady  could 
stand  barefoot  on  a  round-runged  ladder  ;  or  that  a  sensible 
Greek  girl  would  take  her  sandals  off  to  try,  on  an  occasion 
when  she  had  festive  arrangements  to  make  with  care.  The 
ladders  themselves,  here  and  in  No.  236  (The  Golden  Age), 
appear  to  me  not  so  classical,  or  so  rude,  in  type,  as  might  have 
been  expected ;  but  to  savor  somewhat  of  the  expeditious  gas- 
ligliting.  Of  course  Mr.  Poynter’s  object  in  No.  236  is  to 
show  us,  like  Michael  Angelo,  the  adaptability  of  limbs  to 


IN  TEE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


181 


awkward  positions.  But  lie  can  only,  by  this  anatomical  sci¬ 
ence,  interest  his  surgical  spectators  ;  while  the  Golden  Age, 
in  this  pinchbeck  one,  interests  nobody.  Not  even  the  painter 
— for  had  he  looked  at  the  best  authorities  for  account  of  it, 
he  would  have  found  that  its  people  lived  chiefly  on  corn  and 
strawberries,  both  growing  wild;  and  doubtless  the  loaded 
fruit-branches  drooped  to  their  reach.  Both  these  pictures 
are  merely  studies  of  decorative  composition,  and  have  far  too 
much  pains  taken  with  them  for  their  purpose.  Decorative 
work,  however  complete,  should  be  easy. 

401.  Ready  !  (P.  Cockerell.) 

I  suppose  this  is  meant  for  portrait,  not  history.  At  all 
events,  the  painter  has  been  misled  in  his  endeavor,  if  he 
made  any,  to  render  Swiss  character,  by  Schiller’s  absurd 
lines.  Schiller,  of  all  men  high  in  poetic  fame  whose  works 
are  in  anywise  known  to  me,  has  the  feeblest  hold  of  facts 
and  the  dullest  imagination.  “  Still  as  a  lamb  !  ”  Sucking,  I 
suppose  ?  They  are  so  very  quiet  in  that  special  occupation  ; 
and  never  think  of  such  a  thing  as  jumping,  when  they  have 
had  enough,  of  course  ?  And  I  should  like  to  hear  a  Swiss 
(or  English)  boy,  with  any  stuff  in  him,  liken  himself  to  a 
lamb !  If  there  were  any  real  event  from  which  the  legend 
sprung,  the  boy’s  saying  would  have  been  not  in  the  smallest 
degree  pathetic  :  “  Never  fear  me,  father ;  I’ll  stand  like 
grandmother’s  donkey  when  she  wants  him  to  go” — or 
something  to  such  effect. 

482.  The  Babylonian  Marriage  Market.  (E.  Long.) 

A  painting  of  great  merit,  and  well  deserving  purchase  by 
the  Anthropological  Society.  For  the  varieties  of  character 
in  the  heads  are  rendered  with  extreme  subtlety,  while,  as  a 
mere  piece  of  painting,  the  work  is  remarkable,  in  the  modern 
school,  for  its  absence  of  affectation  ;  there  is  no  insolently 
indulged  indolence,  nor  vulgarly  asserted  dexterity — the  paint¬ 
ing  is  good  throughout,  and  unobtrusively  powerful. 

It  becomes  a  question  of  extreme  interest  with  me,  as  I  ex¬ 
amine  this  remarkable  picture,  how  far  the  intensely  subtle 


182 


NOTES  ON  TIIE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


observation  of  physical  character  and  expression  which  ren¬ 
dered  the  painting  of  it  possible,  necessitates  the  isolation  of 
the  artist’s  thoughts  from  subjects  of  intellectual  interest,  or 
moral  beauty.  Certainly,  the  best  expressional  works  of  the 
higher  schools  present  nothing  analogous  to  the  anatomical 
precision  with  which  the  painter  has  here  gradated  the 
feature  and  expression  of  the  twelve  waiting  girls,  from  great 
physical  beauty  to  absolute  ugliness  ;  and  from  the  serene 
insolence  and  power  of  accomplished  fleshly  womanhood,  to 
the  restless  audacity,  and  crushed  resignation,  of  its  despised 
states  of  personal  inferiority,  unconsoled  by  moral  strength, 
or  family  affection.  As  a  piece  of  anthropology,  it  is  the  nat¬ 
ural  and  very  wonderful  product  of  a  century  occupied  in 
carnal  and  mechanical  science.  In  the  total  paralysis  of  con¬ 
ception — without  attempt  to  disguise  the  palsy — as  to  the 
existence  of  any  higher  element  in  a  woman’s  mind  than 
vanity  and  spite,  or  in  a  man’s  than  avarice  and  animal 
passion,  it  is  also  a  specific  piece  of  the  natural  history  of 
our  own  century ;  but  only  a  partial  one,  either  of  it,  or  of 
the  Assyrian,  who  was  once  as  “  the  cedars  in  the  garden  of 
God.” 

The  painter  has  in  the  first  instance  misread  his  story,  or 
been  misled  by  his  translation.  This  custom,  called  wise  by 
Herodotus,  is  so  called  only  as  practised  in  country  districts 
with  respect  to  the  fortuneless  girls  of  the  lower  laboring 
population  ;  daughters  of  an  Assyrian  noble,  however  plain- 
featured,  would  certainly  not  be  exposed  in  the  market  to 
receive  dowry  from  the  dispute  for  their  fairer  sisters.*  But 
there  is  matter  of  deeper  interest  in  the  custom,  as  it  is  com¬ 
pared  to  our  modern  life.  However  little  the  English  edu¬ 
cated  classes  now  read  their  Bibles,  they  cannot  but,  in  the 
present  state  of  literary  science,  be  aware  that  there  is  a  book, 


*  The  passage  in  Strabo  which  gives  some  countenance  to  the  idea  of 
universality  in  the  practice,  gives  a  somewhat  different  color  to  it  by 
the  statement  that  over  each  of  the  three  great  Assyrian  provinces  a 
“temperately  wise”  person  was  set  to  conduct  the  ordinances  of 
marriage. 


IN  TUB  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


183 


once  asserted  to  have  been  written  by  St.  John,  in  which  a 
spiritual  Babylon  is  described  as  the  mother  of  harlots  and 
abominations  of  the  earth,  and  her  ruin  represented  as  lament¬ 
able,  especially  to  the  merchants ,  who  trafficked  with  her  in 
many  beautiful  and  desirable  articles,  but  above  all  in  “  souls 
of  men.” 

Also,  the  educated  reader  cannot  but  be  aware  that  the  ani¬ 
mosity  of  Christian  sects — which  we  have  seen  the  subject  of 
another  important  national-historical  picture  in  this  Academy 
— has  for  the  last  three  hundred  years  wasted  much  of  their 
energy  in  endeavors  to  find  Scriptural  reason  for  calling  each 
other  Babylonians,  and  whatever  else  that  term  may  be  under¬ 
stood  to  imply. 

There  is,  however,  no  authority  to  be  found  in  honestly 
read  Scripture  for  these  well-meaning,  but  ignorant,  incivili¬ 
ties.  Bead  in.  their  entirety,  the  books  of  the  Bible  represent 
to  us  a  literal  and  material  deliverance  of  a  visibly  separated 
people,  from  a  literal  bondage  ;  their  establishment  in  a  liter¬ 
ally  fruitful  and  peaceful  land,  and  their  being  led  away  out 
of  that  land,  in  consequence  of  their  refusal  to  obey  the  laws 
of  its  Lord,  into  a  literal  captivity  in  a  small,  material  Baby¬ 
lon.  The  same  Scriptures  represent  to  us  a  spiritual  deliver¬ 
ance  of  an  invisibly  separated  people,  from  spiritual  bondage  ; 
their  establishment  in  the  spiritual  land  of  Christian  joy  and 
peace  ;  and  their  being  led  away  out  of  this  land  into  a  spirit¬ 
ual  captivity  in  a  great  spiritual  Babylon,  the  mother  of 
abominations,  and  in  all  active  transactions  especially  delight¬ 
ful  to  “  merchants  ” — persons  engaged,  that  is  to  say,  in  ob¬ 
taining  profits  by  exchange  instead  of  labor. 

And  whatever  was  literally  done,  whether  apparently  wise 
or  not,  in  the  minor  fleshly  Babylon,  will,  therefore,  be  found 
spiritually  fulfilled  in  the  major  ghostly  one  ;  and,  for  in¬ 
stance,  as  the  most  beautiful  and  marvellous  maidens  were 
announced  for  literal  sale  by  auction  in  Assyria,  are  not  also 
the  souls  of  our  most  beautiful  and  marvellous  maidens  an¬ 
nounced  annually  for  sale  by  auction  in  Paris  and  London,  in 
a  spiritual  manner,  for  the  spiritual  advantages  of  position  in 
society. 


184  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


BIOGRAPHY. 

Under  this  head  I  include  Drama,  Domestic  Incident,  and 
Portrait  :  this  last  being,  if  good,  the  sum  of  what  drama  and 
domestic  chances  have  been  wrought  by,  and  befallen  to,  the 
person  portrayed. 

Not  to  begin  with  too  high  matters,  and  collapse  subse¬ 
quently,  suppose  we  first  contemplate  the  pretty  little  scene, 

408.  Domestic  Troubles.  (J.  Burr.) 

The  boy  peeping  in  fearfully  at  the  door,  has  evidently, 
under  the  inspiration  of  modern  scientific  zeal,  dissected  the 
bellows  ;  and  whether  they  will  ever  help  the  pot  to  boil 
again  is  doubtful  to  grandpapa.  The  figure  of  the  younger 
child,  mute  with  awe  and  anxiety,  yet  not  wholly  guiltless  of 
his  naughty  brother’s  curiosity,  is  very  delightful.  Avenging 
Fate,  at  the  chimney-piece,  is  too  severe. 

I  have  marked,  close  by  it,  two  other  pictures,  403,  405, 
which  interested  me  for  reasons  scarcely  worth  printing.  The 
cloister  of  Assisi  has  been  carefully  and  literally  studied,  in 
all  but  what  is  singular  or  beautiful  in  it ;  namely,  the  flat¬ 
tened  dome  over  its  cistern,  and  the  central  mossy  well  above. 
But  there  is  more  conscientious  treatment  of  the  rest  of  the 
building,  and  greater  quietness  of  natural  light  than  in  most 
picture  backgrounds  of  these  days.  Ponte  della  Paglia,  405, 
may  be  useful  to  travellers  in  at  least  clearly,  if  not  quite  ac¬ 
curately,  showing  the  decorative  use  of  the  angle  sculpture  of 
the  drunkenness  of  Noah  on  the  Ducal  Palace ;  and  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs  is  better  painted  than  usual. 

242.  A  Merrie  Jest.  (H.  S.  Marks,  A.) 

Very  characteristic  of  the  painter’s  special  gift.  The  diffi¬ 
culty  of  so  subtle  a  rendering  as  this  of  the  half-checked,  yet 
extreme  mirth,  of  persons  naturally  humorous,  can  only  bo 
judged  of  by  considering  how  often  aspects  of  laughter  aro 
attempted  in  pictures,  and  how  rarely  we  feel  ourselves  in- 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


1 S5 


dined  to  join  in  the  merriment.  The  piece  of  accessory  and- 
scape  is  very  unaffected  and  good,  and  the  painting,  through¬ 
out,  here,  as  well  as  in  the  equally  humorous,  and  useless, 
picture  of  bygone  days,  166,  of  good  standard  modern  quality. 

107.  The  Barber’s  Prodigy.  (J.  B.  Burgess.) 

A  close  and  careful  study  of  modern  domestic  drama,  de¬ 
serving  notice,  however,  chiefly  for  its  unaffected  manner  of 
work,  and  moderately  pleasant  incident,  as  opposed  to  over- 
labored  pictures  of  what  is  merely  ugly,  or  meanly  faultful, 
141,  241 — wrastes  of  attention,  skill,  and  time.  “Too  Good 
to  be  True,”  153,  another  clever  bit  of  minor  drama,  is  yet 
scarcely  good  enough  to  be  paused  at ;  “  Private  and  Confi¬ 
dential,”  375,  deserves  a  few  moments  more.  879  (A.  Ldben) 
is  much  surer  and  finer  in  touch  than  anything  English  that 
I  can  find  in  this  sort.  The  Diisseldorf  Germans,  and  the 
Neuchatel  Swiss  have  been  doing  splendid  domestic  work 
lately  ;  but,  I  suppose,  are  too  proud  to  exhibit  here. 

75.  Sophia  Western.  (W.  P.  Frith,  R  A.) 

The  painter  seems  not  to  have  understood,  nor  are  the  pub¬ 
lic  likely  to  understand,  that  Fielding  means,  in  the  passage 
quoted,  to  say  that  Miss  Western’s  hands  were  white,  soft, 
translucent,  and  at  the  moment,  snow-cold.  In  the  picture 
they  cannot  be  shown  to  be  cold — are  certainly  not  white  ;  do 
not  look  soft ;  and  scarcely  show  the  light  of  the  fire  on  them, 
much  less  through  them.  But  what  is  the  use  of  painting 
from  Fielding  at  all  ?  Of  all  our  classic  authors,  it  is  he  who 
demands  the  reader’s  attention  most  strictly ;  and  what  mod¬ 
ern  reader  ever  attends  to  anything  ? 

88.  Loot :  1797.  (A.  C.  Gore.) 

An  entirely  fine  picture  of  its  class,  representing  an  ordi¬ 
nary  fact  of  war  as  it  must  occur,  without  any  forced  senti¬ 
ment  or  vulgar  accent.  Highly  skilful  throughout,  keenly 
seen,  well  painted,  and  deserving  a  better  place  than  the  slow 
cart-horses  and  solid  waterfalls  on  the  line  have  left  for  it. 


186  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


89.  War  Time.  (B.  Riviere.) 

Compare  626,  at  once  ;  the  first  is  a  true  piece  of  feeling— 
almost  Wordsworthian  ;  the  second,  disgraceful  to  it,  both  in 
the  low  pitch  of  its  vulgar  horror,  and  in  its  loss  of  power,  by 
retreat  to  picturesque  tradition,  instead  of  dealing,  like  the 
other,  with  the  facts  of  our  own  day. 

If  Mr.  Riviere  really  feels  as  I  think  he  feels,  and  means  to 
do  good,  he  must  not  hope  to  do  anything  with  people  who 
would  endure  the  sight  of  a  subject  such  as  this.  He  may 
judge  what  they  are  worth  by  a  sentence  I  heard  as  I  stood 
before  it.  “  Last  of  the  garrison — ha  !  they’re  all  finished  off, 
you  see — isn’t  that  well  done  ?  ”  At  all  events,  if  he  means 
to  touch  them,  he  must  paint  the  cooking  of  a  French  pet- 
poodle  ;  not  the  stabbing  of  a  bloodhound. 

214.  The  Crown  of  Love.  (J.  E.  Millais.) 

Much  of  the  painter’s  old  power  remains  in  this  sketch  (it 
cannot  be  called  a  painting)  ;  and  it  is  of  course  the  leading 
one  of  the  year  in  dramatic  sentiment.  This,  then,  it  appears, 
is  the  best  that  English  art  can,  at  the  moment,  say  in  praise 
of  the  virtue,  and  promise  of  the  reward,  of  Love ;  this,  the 
subject  of  sentimental  contemplation  likely  to  be  most  pleas¬ 
ing  to  the  present  British  public  ;  torture,  namely,  carried  to 
crisis  of  death,  in  the  soul  of  one  creature,  and  flesh  of  an¬ 
other.  The  British  public  are  welcome  to  their  feast ;  but,  as 
purchasers,  they  ought  to  be  warned  that,  compared  with  the 
earlier  dual  pictures  of  the  school  (Huguenot,  Claudio  and 
Isabella,  April  love,  and  the  like),  this  composition  balances 
its  excess  of  sentiment  by  defect  of  industry  ;  and  that  it  is 
not  a  precedent  advantageous  to  them,  in  the  arrangement  of 
pictures  of  lovers,  that  one  should  have  a  body  without  a  face, 
and  the  other  a  face  without  a  body. 

47.  Hearts  of  Oak.  (J.  C.  Hook,  R.A.) 

Beautiful,  but  incomplete  ;  the  painter  wants  more  heart  of 
oak  himself.  If  he  had  let  all  his  other  canvases  alone,  and 
finished  this,  the  year’s  work  would  have  been  a  treasure  for  all 
the  centuries ;  while  now,  it  is  only  “  the  Hook  of  the  season/ 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


187 


It  looks  right  and  harmonious  in  its  subdued  sunshine.  But 
it  isn’t.  Why  should  mussel-shells  cast  a  shadow,  but  boats 
and  hats  none  ?  Why  should  toy-carts  and  small  stones  have 
light  and  dark  sides,  and  tall  rocks  none  ?  I  fancy  all  the 
pictures  this  year  must  have  been  painted  in  the  sunless  east 
wind  ;  and  only  a  bit  of  sunshine  put  in  here  and  there  out  of  the 
painter’s  head,  where  he  thought  it  would  do  nobody  any  harm. 

112.  A  November  Morning,  etc.  (H.  T.  Wells,  R.A.) 

Fishermen’s  hearts  being  of  oak,  what  are  huntsmen’s  hearts 
made  of  ? 

They  will  have  to  ascertain,  and  prove,  soon  ;  there  being 
question  nowadays,  among  the  lower  orders,  whether  they 
have  got  any,  to  speak  of. 

A  pleasant  aristocratic  picture — creditable  to  Mr.  Wells,  and 
the  nobility.  Not  a  Yandyck,  neither. 

430.  Sunday  Afternoon.  (R.  Collinson.) 

This  picture,  though  of  no  eminent  power  in  any  respect,  is 
extremely  delightful  to  myself  ;  and  ought,  I  think,  to  be  so 
to  most  unsophisticated  persons,  who  care  for  English  rural 
life  ;  representing,  as  it  does,  a  pleasant  and  virtuous  phase  of 
such  life,  whether  on  Sunday  or  Saturday  afternoon. 

Why,  by  the  way,  must  we  accept  it  for  Sunday  ?  Have 
our  nice  old  women  no  rest  on  any  other  day  ?  Do  they  never 
put  on  a  clean  muslin  kerchief  on  any  other  day  ?  Do  they 
never  read  their  Bible  (of  course,  it  would  be  improper  to  sup¬ 
pose  any  other  book  readable  by  them)  on  any  other  day  ? 
Whatever  day  it  be — here,  at  all  events,  are  peace,  light,  clean¬ 
liness,  and  content. 

Luxury  even,  of  a  kind  ;  the  air  coming  in  at  that  door  must 
be  delicious  ;  and  the  leaves,  outside  of  it,  look  like  a  bit  of 
the  kitchen-garden  side  of  Paradise.  They  please  me  all  the 
better  because,  since  scientific  people  -were  good  enough  to  tell 
us  that  leaves  were  made  green  by  “  green-leaf,”  I  haven’t  seen 
a  leaf  painted  green,  by  auybody.  But  this  peep  through  the 
door  is  like  old  times,  when  we  were  neither  plagued  with 
soot,  nor  science. 


188  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


Note,  for  a  little  piece  of  technical  study  in  composition, 
that  the  painter  would  not  have  been  able  to  venture  on  so 
pure  color  outside  of  the  door,  had  he  not  painted  the  door 
green  as  well,  only  of  a  modified  tint,  and  so  led  the  subdued 
color  forward  into  the  red  interior,  taken  up  again  by  the 
shadows  of  the  plants  in  the  window.  The  management  of 
the  luminous  shadow  throughout  is  singularly  skilful — all  the 
more  so  because  it  attracts  so  little  attention.  This  is  true 
chiaroscuro  ;  not  spread  treacle  or  splashed  mud,  speckled  with 
white  spots — as  a  Rembrandt  amateur  thinks. 

Mr.  Pettie,  for  instance,  a  man  of  real  feeling  and  great 
dramatic  power,  is  ruining  himself  by  these  shallow  notions  of 
chiaroscuro.  If  he  had  not  been  mimicking  Rembrandt,  as 
well  as  the  “costume  of  the  sixteenth  century,”  in  318,  he 
never  would  have  thought  of  representing  Scott’s  entirely 
heroic  and  tender-hearted  Harry  of  Perth  (223),  merely  by  the 
muscular  back  and  legs  of  him  (the  legs,  by  the  way,  were 
slightly  bandy — if  one  holds  to  accuracy  iu  anatomical  re¬ 
spects)  ;  nor  vulgarized  the  real  pathos  and  most  subtle  expres¬ 
sion  of  his  Jacobites  (1217)  by  the  slovenly  dark  background, 
corresponding,  virtually,  to  the  slouched  hat  of  a  theatrical 
conspirator.  I  have  been  examining  the  painting  of  the  chief 
Jacobite’s  face  very  closely.  It  is  nearly  as  good  as  a  piece  of 
old  William  Hunt ;  but  Hunt  never  loaded  his  paint,  except 
in  sticks,  and  moss,  and  such  like.  Now  there’s  a  wrinkle 
quite  essential  to  the  expression,  under  the  Jacobite’s  eye,  got 
by  a  projecting  ridge  of  paint,  instead  of  a  proper  dark  line. 
Rembrandt’s  bad  bricklayer’s  work,  with  all  the  mortar  stick¬ 
ing  out  at  the  edges,  may  be  pardonable  in  a  Dutchman  sure 
of  his  colors ;  but  it  is  always  licentious  ;  and  m  these  days, 
when  the  first  object  of  manufacture  is  to  produce  articles  that 
won’t  last,  if  the  mortar  cracks,  where  are  we  ? 

To  return  to  the  question  of  chiaroscuro.  The  present 
Academicians — most  of  whom  I  have  had  anxious  talk  of, 
with  their  fathers  or  friends,  when  they  were  promising  boys 
— have  since  been,  with  the  best  part  of  their  minds,  amusing 
themselves  in  London  drawing-rooms,  or  Eastern  deserts,  in¬ 
stead  of  learning  their  business  ;  with  the  necessary  result 


m  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


189 


that  they  have,  as  a  body,  qualified  themselves  rather  to  be 
Masters  of  Ceremonies  than  of  Studies  ;  and  guides  rather  of 
Caravans  than  Schools ;  and  have  not  got  an  inkling  of  any 
principle  of  their  art  to  bless  themselves — or  other  people, 
with.  So  that  they  have  not  only  filled  their  large  railroad 
station  and  stalls  (attached  refreshment-room  completing  the 
nature  of  the  thing)  with  a  mass  of  heterogeneous  pictures, 
of  which  at  least  two-thirds  are  beneath  the  level  of  accept¬ 
ance  in  any  well-established  dealer’s  shop  ;  *  but  they  have 
encouraged,  by  favor  of  position,  quite  the  worst  abuses  of 
the  cheap  art  of  the  day ;  of  which  these  tricks  of  rubbing 
half  the  canvas  over  with  black  or  brown,  that  the  rest  may 
come  out  handsomer,  or  that  the  spectator  may  be  properly, 
but  at  the  same  time  economically,  prepared  for  its  melan¬ 
choly  or  sublime  tenor,  are  among  the  least  creditable  either 
to  our  English  wits  or  honesty.  The  portrait,  No.  437,  for 
instance,  is  a  very  respectable  piece  of  painting,  and  w^ould 
have  taken  its  place  well  in  the  year’s  show  of  work,  if  the 
inkstand  had  not  been  as  evanescent  as  the  vision  of  Ezekiel, 
and  the  library  shelves  so  lost  in  the  gloom  of  art,  as  to  sug¬ 
gest,  symbolically,  what  our  bishops  at  home  seem  so  much 
afraid  of — indistinctness  in  colonial  divinity.  And  the  two 
highly  moral  pictures,  101  and  335,  which  are  meant  to 
enforce  on  the  public  mind  the  touching  theories  that,  for 
the  laboring  poor,  grass  is  not  green,  nor  geese  white  ;  and 
that  on  the  pastoral  poor,  the  snow  falls  dirty  ;  might  have 
delivered  their  solemn  message  just  as  convincingly  from  a 
more  elevated  stage  of  the  wall-pulpit,  without  leaving  on  the 
minds  of  any  profane  spectator  like  myself,  the  impression  of 
their  having  been  executed  by  a  converted  crossing-sweeper, 
with  his  broom,  after  it  was  worn  stumpy. 

If  the  reader  is  interested  in  the  abstract  qualities  of  art, 
he  will  find  it  useful  at  once  to  compare  with  these  more  or 
less  feeble  or  parsimonious  performances,  two  pictures 


*  I  permit  myself  to  name,  for  instance,  not  as  worse  than  others,  but 
as  peculiarly  disagreeable  to  myself,  beoause  I  love  monks,  herons,  and 
sea — 450,  291,  and  837. 


190 


NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


which,  if  not  high  in  attainment,  are  at  least,  the  one  strong, 
and  the  other  generous.  184.  “  Peasantry  of  Esthonia  going 
to  Market  ”  (G.  Bochman)  is  masterly  work,  by  a  man  prac¬ 
tised  in  his  business  ;  but  who  has  been  taught  it  in  a  bad 
school.  It  is  a  true  artistic  abstraction  of  gray  and  angular 
natural  facts  ;  it  indeed  omits  too  much — for  even  in  Es¬ 
thonia  there  must  be  grass  somewhere,  or  what  could  the 
horses  eat  ? — and  it  omits  the  best  things  and  keeps  the 
worst ;  but  it  is  done  with  method,  skill,  and  a  conscientious 
notion  that  to  be  gray  and  angular  is  to  be  right.  And  it 
deserves  a  place  in  an  Academy  exhibition. 

On  the  other  hand,  263,  “  Getting  Better  ”  (C.  Calthrop),  is 
an  intensely  laborious,  honest,  and  intentionally  difficult 
study  of  chiaroscuro  in  two  lights,  on  varied  color  ;  and  in 
all  other  respects  it  is  well  meant,  and  generously,  according 
to  the  painter’s  power,  completed.  I  won’t  say  more  of  it, 
because  at  the  height  it  hangs  I  can  see  no  more  ;  nor  must 
the  reader  suppose  that  what  I  have  said  implies  anything 
beyond  what  is  stated.  All  that  I  certify  is,  that  as  a  study 
of  chiaroscuro  it  deserves  close  attention,  much  praise,  and  a 
better  place  than  it  at  present  occupies. 

336.  The  Mayor  of  Newcastle.  (W.  W.  Ouless.) 

An  agreeable  and  vigorous  portrait,  highly  creditable  to 
the  painter,  and  honorable  to  its  subject  and  its  possessors. 
Mr.  Ouless  has  adopted  from  Mr.  Millais  what  was  deserving 
of  imitation  ;  and  used  the  skill  he  has  learned  to  better 
ends.  All  his  portraits  here  are  vigorous  and  interesting. 

221.  John  Stuart  Blackie.  (J.  Archer.) 

An  entirely  well-meant,  and  I  should  conjecture  successful, 
portrait  of  a  man  much  deserving  portraiture.  The  back¬ 
ground  has  true  meaning,  and  is  satisfactorily  complete  ;  very 
notable,  in  that  character,  among  the  portrait  backgrounds  of 
the  year.  The  whole  is  right  and  good. 

718.  The  Countess  of  Pembroke.  (E.  Clifford.) 

Mr.  Clifford  evidently  means  well,  and  is  studying  in  th® 


IN  TIIE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


191 


elder  schools  ;  and  painting  persons  who  will  permit  him  to 
do  his  best  in  his  own  way. 

There  is  much  of  interesting  in  his  work,  but  he  has  yet 
to  pass  through  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  before  he  can  reach 
the  Celestial  Mountains.  He  must  become  perfectly  simple 
before  he  can  be  sublime  ;  above  all,  he  must  not  hope  to  be 
great  by  effort.  This  portrait  is  over-labored  ;  and,  toward 
the  finishing,  he  has  not  well  seen  what  he  was  doing,  and 
has  not  rightly  balanced  his  front  light  against  that  of  the 
sky.  But  his  drawings  always  deserve  careful  notice. 

317.  Miss  M.  Stuart  Wortley.  (A.  Stuart  Wortley.) 

The  Tightest  and  most  dignified  female  portrait  here — as 
Lady  Coleridge’s  drawing  of  Mr.  Newman,  1069,  is  the  most 
subtle  among  those  of  the  members  of  learned  professions 
(though  Mr.  Laurence’s  two  beautiful  drawings,  1054,  1062, 
only  fall  short  of  it  by  exhibiting  too  frankly  the  practised 
skill  of  their  execution).  1052  is  also  excellent ;  and,  on  the 
whole — thinking  over  these,  and  other  more  irregular  and 
skirmishing,  but  always  well-meant,  volunteer  work,  sprinkled 
about  the  rooms — I  think  the  amateurs  had  better  have  an 
Academy  of  their  own  next  year,  in  which  indulgently,  when 
they  had  room  to  spare,  they  might  admit  the  promising 
effort  of  an  artist. 

I  have  scarcely  been  able  to  glance  round  at  the  portrait 
sculpture  ;  and  am  always  iniquitously  influenced,  in  judg¬ 
ing  of  marble,  by  my  humor  for  praise  or  dispraise  of  the 
model,  rather  than  artist.  Guarding  myself,  as  well  as  I 
may,  from  such  faultful  bias,  I  yet  venture  to  name  1342  as 
an  exemplary  piece  of  chiselling  ;  carefully  and  tenderly 
composed  in  every  touch.  If  the  hair  on  the  forehead  were 
completely  finished,  this  would  be  a  nearly  perfect  bust.  I 
cannot  understand  why  the  sculptor  should  have  completed 
the  little  tress  that  falls  on  the  cheek  so  carefully  ;  and  yet  left 
so  many  unmodified  contours  in  the  more  important  masses. 

1301.  Thomas  Carlyle.  (J.  E.  Boehm.) 

For  this  noble  piece  of  portraiture  I  cannot  trust  myself  to 


192  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


express  my  personal  gratitude  ;  nor  does  either  the  time  I  can 
give  to  these  notes,  or  their  limited  intention,  permit  me — if 
even  otherwise  I  could  think  it  permissible — to  speak  at  all 
of  the  high  and  harmonious  measure  in  which  it  seems  to  me 
to  express  the  mind  and  features  of  my  dear  Master. 

This  only  it  is  within  the  compass  of  my  present  purpose 
to  affirm — that  here  is  a  piece  of  vital  and  essential  sculpture ; 
the  result  of  sincere  skill  spent  carefully  on  an  object  worthy 
its  care  :  motive  and  method  alike  right ;  no  pains  spared  ; 
and  none  wasted.  And  any  spectator  of  sensitiveness  will 
find  that,  broadly  speaking,  all  the  sculpture  round  seems 
dead  and  heavy  in  comparison,  after  he  has  looked  long  at 
this. 

There  must  always  be,  indeed,  some  difference  in  the  im¬ 
mediate  effect  on  our  minds  between  the  picturesque  treat¬ 
ment  proper  in  portrait  sculpture,  and  that  belonging,  by  its 
grace  of  reserve,  to  classical  design.  But  it  is  generally  a 
note  of  weakness  in  an  Englishman  when  he  thinks  he  can 
conceive  like  a  Greek  ;  so  that  the  plurality  of  modern 
Hellenic  Academy  sculpture  consists  merely  of  imperfect 
anatomical  models  peeped  at  through  bath-towels  ;  and  is  in 
the  essence  of  it  quite  as  dull  as  it  appears  to  be.  Let  us  go 
back  to  less  dignified  work. 

196.  School  Revisited.  (G.  D.  Leslie,  A.) 

I  came  upon  this  picture  early,  in  my  first  walk  through 
the  rooms,  and  was  so  delighted  with  it  that  it  made  me  like 
everything  else  I  saw,  that  morning  ;  it  is  altogether  ex¬ 
quisite  in  rendering  some  of  the  sweet  qualities  of  English 
girlhood  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  the  most  easy  and  graceful 
composition  in  the  rooms.  I  had  written  first,  “masterly” 
composition  ;  but  no  composition  is  quite  masterly  which 
modifies  or  subdues  any  of  the  natural  facts  so  as  to  force 
certain  relations  between  them.  Mr.  Leslie  at  present  sub¬ 
dues  all  greens,  refuses  all  but  local  darks,  and  scarcely  per¬ 
mits  himself,  even  in  flesh,  color  enough  for  life.  Young 
ladies  at  a  happy  country  boarding-school,  like  this,  would 
be  as  bright  as  by  the  seaside ;  and  there  is  no  reason  why  a 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY . 


193 


knowledge-gatherer,  well  cared  for,  should  be  less  rosy  than 
a  samphire-gatherer. 

Rich  color  may  be  in  good  taste,  as  well  as  the  poorest ; 
and  the  quaintness,  politeness,  and  grace  of  Leslie  might  yet 
glow  with  the  strength  and  freshness  of  Hook.  It  may  per¬ 
haps  be  more  difficult  than  I  suppose  to  get  the  delicate  lines 
and  gradations  on  which  the  expression  of  these  girls  mainly 
depends  in  deeper  color.  But,  at  all  events,  the  whole 
should  be  more  in  harmony,  and  more  consistently  precious. 
English  girls  are,  perhaps,  not  all  of  them,  St.  Dorothys ;  but 
at  least  they  are  good  enough  to  deserve  to  have  their  rose- 
leaves  painted  about  them  thoroughly. 

The  little  tiling  on  the  extreme  left,  with  the  hoop,  is  as 
pleasant  a  shadow  of  nature  as  can  be  conceived  in  this  kind : 
and  I  have  no  words  to  say  how  pretty  she  is. 

But  Mr.  Leslie  is  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  artist  life.  His 
earlier  pictures  were  finer  in  color — and  color  is  the  soul  of 
painting.  If  he  could  resolve  to  paint  thoroughly,  and  give 
the  colors  of  Nature  as  they  are,  he  might  be  a  really  great 
painter,  and  almost  hold,  to  Bonifazio,  the  position  that  Rey¬ 
nolds  held  to  Titian.  But  if  he  subdues  his  color  for  the 
sake  of  black  ribands,  white  dresses,  or  faintly  idealized  faces, 
he  will  become  merely  an  Academic  leaf  of  the  “  Magazin  des 
Modes.” 

For  the  present,  however,  this  picture,  and  the  clay  portrait 
of  Carlyle,  are,  as  far  as  my  review  reaches,  the  only  two 
works  of  essential  value  in  the  Exhibition  of  this  year — that 
i3  to  say,  the  only  works  of  quietly  capable  art,  representing 
what  deserved  representation. 

English  girls,  by  an  English  painter.  Whether  you  call 
them  Madonnas,  or  saints — or  what  not — it  is  the  law  of  art- 
life  ;  your  own  people,  as  they  live,  are  the  only  ones  you  can 
understand.  Only  living  Venice,  done  by  Venetian — living 
Greece  by  Greek — living  Scotland,  perhaps,  which  has  much 
loved  Germany,  by  living  Germany,  which  has  much  rever¬ 
enced  Scotland  :  such  expansion  of  law  maybe  granted  ;  nay, 
the  strangeness  of  a  foreign  country,  making  an  artist’s  sight 

of  it  shrewd  and  selective,  may  produce  a  sweet  secondary 

13 


104  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


form  of  beautiful  art ;  your  Spanish  Lewis — your  French 
Prout — your  Italian  Wilson  —  and  their  like — second-rate 
nevertheless,  always.  Not  Lewis,  but  only  Velasquez,  can 
paint  a  perfect  Spaniard  ;  not  Wilson,  nor  Turner,  but  only 
Carpaccio,  can  paint  an  Italian  landscape  ;  and,  too  fatally, 
the  effort  is  destructive  to  the  painters,  beyond  all  resistance  ; 
and  Lewis  loses  his  animal  power  among  the  arabesques  of 
Cairo  ;  Turner,  his  Yorkshire  honesty  at  Rome  ;  and  Holman 
Hunt — painting  the  Light  of  the  World  in  an  English  or¬ 
chard — paints  the  gaslight  of  Bond  Street  in  the  Holy  Land. 

English  maids,  I  repeat,  by  an  English  painter  :  that  is  all 
that  an  English  Academy  can  produce  of  loveliest.  There’s 
another  beautiful  little  one,  by  Mr.  Leighton,  with  a  purple 
drapery  thrown  over  her,  that  she  may  be  called  Fatima  (215, 
and  345),  who  would  have  been  quite  infinitely  daintier  in  a 
print  frock,  and  called  Patty.  And  I  fear  there  are  no  more, 
to  speak  of,  by  artists,*  this  year  ;  the  two  vivid  sketches, 
222,  262,  being  virtually  put  out  of  court  by  their  coarse 
work.  (Look  close  at  the  painting  of  the  neck,  in  the  one, 
and  of  the  left  hand,  in  the  other.)  Of  English  men,  there  is 
the  Mayor,  and  the  Chemist ;  a  vigorous  squire  or  two,  and 
the  group  of  grand  old  soldiers  at  Greenwich — a  most  notable, 
true,  pathetic  study ;  but  scarcely  artistic  enough  to  be  reck¬ 
oned  as  of  much  more  value  than  a  good  illustrative  woodcut. 
Mr.  Watts’  portraits  are  all  conscientious  and  subtle,  and  of 
great  present  interest,  yet  not  realistic  enough  to  last.  Exclu¬ 
sively  I  return  to  my  Carlyle  and  the  school-girls,  as,  the  one, 
sure  to  abide  against  the  beating  of  the  time  stream  ;  and 
the  other,  possibly  floating  on  it,  discernible  as  a  flower  in 
foam. 


y 


*  But  see  note  on  317,  p.  191. 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


195 


NATURAL  HISTORY. 

There  ought  to  be  a  separate  room  in  our  Academy  for  the 
exhibition  of  the  magnificent  work  in  scientific  drawing  and 
engraving,  done,  at  present,  almost  without  public  notice,  for 
the  illustrations  of  great  European  works  on  Palaeontology, 
Zoology,  and  Botany.  The  feeling,  on  the  part  of  our  artists, 
that  an  idle  landscape  sketch,  or  a  clever  caricature,  may  be 
admitted  into  their  rooms  as  “  artistic  ;  ”  and  that  work  which 
the  entire  energy  of  early  life  must  be  given  to  learn,  and  of 
late  life  to  execute — is  to  be  excluded,  merely  because  it  is 
thoroughly  true  and  useful — -is  I  hope  likely  to  yield,  some 
day,  to  the  scientific  enthusiasm  which  has  prevailed  often 
where  it  should  have  been  resisted,  and  may  surely  therefore 
conquer,  in  time,  where  it  has  honorable  claims. 

There  is  nothing  of  the  kind,  however,  to  be  seen  here, 
hitherto  ;  but  I  may  direct  attention  under  this  head,  rather 
than  that  of  landscape,  to  the  exquisite  skill  of  delineation 
with  which  Mr.  Cooke  has  finished  the  group  of  palm-trees  in 
his  wonderful  study  of  Sunset  at  Denderah.  (443.)  The 
sacrifice  of  color  in  shadow  for  the  sake  of  brilliancy  in  light, 
essentially  a  principle  of  Holland  as  opposed  to  Venice,  is  in 
I  great  degree  redeemed  in  this  picture  by  the  extreme  care 
with  which  the  relations  of  light  are  observed  on  the  terms 
conceded  :  but  surely,  from  so  low  sunset,  the  eastern  slopes 
of  the  mountains  on  the  left  could  not  have  been  reached  by 
so  many  rays  ? 

To  this  division  of  our  subject  also  must  be  referred  Mr. 
Brett’s  “Spires  and  Steeples  of  the  Channel  Islands  (49/), 
but  with  less  praise,  for  since  the  days  when  I  first  endeav¬ 
ored  to  direct  the  attention  of  a  careless  public  to  his  con¬ 
scientious  painting  of  the  Stonebreaker  and  Woodcutter,  he 
has  gained  nothing — rather,  I  fear,  lost,  in  subtlety  of  execu¬ 
tion,  and  necessitates  the  decline  of  his  future  power  by  per¬ 
sistently  covering  too  large  canvas.  There  is  no  occasion  that 
a  geological  study  should  also  be  a  geological  map  ;  and  even 


i 


196  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


his  earlier  picture,  which  I  am  honored  in  possessing,  of  the 
Yal  d’Aosta,  would  have  been  more  precious  to  me  if  it  had 
been  only  of  half  the  Yal  d’Aosta. 

The  extreme  distance  here,  however,  beyond  the  promon¬ 
tory,  is  without  any  question  the  best  bit  of  sea  and  atmos¬ 
phere  in  the  rooms.  The  paint  on  the  water  surface  in  the 
bay  is  too  loaded  ;  but  laid  with  extreme  science  in  alterna¬ 
tions  of  color. 

At  a  still  lower  level,  though  deserving  some  position  in 
the  Natural  History  class  for  its  essential,  though  rude,  and 
apparently  motiveless,  veracity,  must  be  placed  “  The  Fringe 
of  the  Moor.”  (74.) 

But  why  one  should  paint  the  fringe  of  the  moor,  rather 
than  the  breadth  of  it,  merely  for  the  privilege  of  carrying  an 
ugly  wooden  fence  all  across  the  foreground,  I  must  leave 
modern  sentimentalists  and  naturalists  to  explain.  Yestiges 
of  the  painter’s  former  power  of  seeing  true  color  remain  in 
the  iridescent  distance,  but  now  only  disgrace  the  gentle  hill¬ 
sides  with  their  coarseness  of  harlequinade  ;  and  the  daubed 
sky — daubed  without  patience  even  to  give  unity  of  direction 
to  the  bristle  marks — seems  to  have  been  wrought  in  obtrusive 
directness  of  insult  to  every  master,  principle,  and  feeling 
reverenced,  or  experienced,  in  the  schools  of  noble  art,  from 
its  nativity  to  this  hour. 

And,  closing  the  equivocal  group  of  works  in  which  Natu¬ 
ralism  prevails  unjustly  over  art,  I  am  obliged  to  rank  Mr. 
Leighton’s  interesting  study  of  man  in  his  Oriental  function 
of  scarecrow  (symmetrically  antithetic  to  his  British  one  of 
game-preserver)  398.  It  is,  I  do  not  doubt,  anatomically  cor¬ 
rect  ;  and,  with  the  addition  of  the  corn,  the  poppies,  and 
the  moon,  becomes  semi-artistic  ;  so  that  I  feel  much  com¬ 
punction  in  depressing  it  into  the  Natural  History  class  ;  and 
the  more,  because  it  partly  forfeits  its  claim  even  to  such 
joosition,  by  obscuring  in  twilight  its  really  valuable  delinea¬ 
tion  of  the  body,  and  disturbing  our  minds,  in  the  process  of 
scientific  investigation,  by  sensational  effects  of  afterglow,  and 
lunar  effulgence,  which  are  disadvantageous,  not  to  the  scien¬ 
tific  observer  only,  but  to  less  learned  spectators  ;  for  when 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


197 


simple  and  superstitious  persons  like  myself,  greatly  suscep¬ 
tible  to  the  influence  of  low  stage  lamps  and  pink  side-lights, 
first  catch  sight  of  the  striding  figure  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  and  take  it,  perhaps,  for  the  angel  with  his  right 
foot  on  the  sea  and  his  left  foot  on  the  earth,  swearing  there 
shall  be  Time  no  longer  ;  or  for  Achilles  alighting  from  one 
of  his  lance-cast-long  leaps  on  the  shore  of  Scamander  ;  and 
find,  on  near  approach,  that  all  this  grand  straddling,  and 
turning  down  of  the  gas,  mean,  practically,  only  a  lad  shying 
stones  at  sparrows,  we  are  but  too  likely  to  pass  on  petulantly, 
without  taking  note  of  what  is  really  interesting  in  this 
Eastern  custom  and  skill — skill  which  I  would  recommend  with 
all  my  heart  to  the  imitation  of  the  British  game-preserver 
aforesaid,  when  the  glorious  end  of  Preservation  is  to  be  ac¬ 
complished  in  Battue.  Good  slinging  would  involve  more 
healthy  and  graceful  muscular  action  than  even  the  finest 
shooting  ;  and  might,  if  we  fully  followed  the  Eastern  example, 
be  most  usefully  practised  in  other  periods  of  the  year,  and 
districts  of  England,  than  those  now  consecrated  to  the  sports 
of  our  aristocracy.  I  cannot  imagine  a  more  edifying  spectacle 
than  a  British  landlord  in  the  middle  of  his  farmer’s  cornfield*- 
occupied  in  this  entirely  patriotic  method  of  Protection. 

The  remainder  of  the  pictures  which  I  have  to  notice  as  be¬ 
longing  to  the  domain  of  Natural  History,  are  of  indubitable, 
though  unpretending,  merit  :  they  represent  indeed  pure 
Zoology  in  its  highest  function  of  Animal  Biography,  which 
scientific  persons  will  one  day  find  requires  much  more  learned 
investigation  of  its  laws  than  the  Thanatography  which  is  at 
present  their  exclusive  occupation  and  entertainment. 

414.  A  Fascinating  Tail.  (H.  H.  Couldery.) 

Quite  the  most  skilful  piece  of  minute  and  Dureresque  paint¬ 
ing  in  the  exhibition — (it  cannot  be  rightly  seen  without  a 
lens)  ;  and  in  its  sympathy  with  kitten  nature,  down  to  the 
most  appalling  depths  thereof,  and  its  tact  and  sensitiveness 
to  the  finest  gradations  of  kittenly  meditation  and  motion, — 
unsurpassable.  It  seems  hard  to  require  of  a  painter  who  has 
toiled  so  much,  that,  for  this  very  reason,  he  should  toil  the 


198 


NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


more.  But  “  The  Little  Epicure  ”  (169)  cannot  be  considered 
a  picture  till  the  cabbage  leaves  are  as  perfect  as  the  fish. 

1234.  The  First  Taste.  (S.  Carter.) 

Altogether  enjoyable  to  me  ;  and  I  am  prepared  to  maintain 
(as  a  true  lover  of  dogs,  young  and  old),  against  all  my  heroic 
and  tragically-minded  friends,  that  this  picture  is  exemplary 
in  its  choice  of  a  moment  of  supreme  puppy  felicity,  as  prop- 
erest  time  for  puppy  portraiture.  And  I  thankfully — and  with 
some  shame  for  my  generally  too  great  distrust  of  modern 
sentiment — acknowledge,  before  it,  that  there  is  a  real  ele¬ 
ment  of  fine  benevolence  toward  animals,  in  us,  advanced 
quite  infinitely,  and  into  another  world  of  feeling,  from  the 
days  of  Snyders  and  Bubens.  “  The  Little  Wanderers  ”  (1173), 
by  this  same  painter,  are  a  most  pathetic  and  touching  group 
of  children  in  the  wood.  You  may  see,  if  you  will  take  your 
opera-glass  to  it,  that  the  robin  is  even  promising  to  cover 
them  with  leaves,  if  indeed  things  are  to  end,  as  seems  too 
probable.  And  compare,  by  the  way,  the  still  more  meek  and 
tender  human  destitution,  “  To  be  Left  till  Called  for,”  83, 
which  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  forgetting,  as  one  of  the 
pretty  things  that  first  encouraged  me  to  write  these  notes. 
“  Nobody’s  Log  ”  may  console  us  with  his  more  cynical  view 
of  his  position  in  the  wide  world  ;  and  finally,  Miss  Acland’s 
Platonic  puppy  (737)  shows  us  how  events  of  the  most  unex¬ 
pected,  and  even  astounding,  character  may  be  regarded,  by 
a  dog  of  sense,  with  entire  moral  tranquillity,  and  consequently 
with  undisturbed  powers  of  reflection  and  penetration. 

How  strange  that  I  cannot  add  to  my  too  short  list  of  ani¬ 
mal  studies — any,  however  unimportant,  of  Birds  !  (I  do  not 
count  as  deserving  notice  at  all,  dramatic  effects  of  vulture, 
raven,  etc.)  Not  a  nest — not  a  plume  !  English  society  now 
caring  only  for  kingfishers’  skins  on  its  hat,  and  plovers’  eggs 
on  its  plate. 


(  \ 


/  i. 


/ 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


199 


LANDSCAPE. 

The  distinction  between  Natural  Historic  painting  of  scen¬ 
ery  and  true  Landscape,  is  that  the  one  represents  objects  as 
a  Government  Surveyor  does,  for  the  sake  of  a  good  account 
of  the  things  themselves,  without  emotion,  or  definite  purpose 
of  expression.  Landscape  painting  shows  the  relation  be¬ 
tween  nature  and  man  ;  and,  in  fine  work,  a  particular  tone 
of  thought  in  the  painter’s  mind  respecting  what  he  repre¬ 
sents. 

I  endeavored,  thirty  years  ago,  in  “Modern  Painters,”  to 
explain  this  difference  briefly,  by  saying  that,  in  Natural  His¬ 
tory  painting,  the  artist  was  only  the  spectator’s  horse  ;  but 
in  Landscape  painting,  his  friend. 

The  worst  of  such  friendliness,  however,  is  that  a  conceited 
painter  may  at  last  leave  Nature  out  of  the  question  altogether, 
and  talk  of  himself  only  ;  and  then  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
to  go  back  to  the  Government  Surveyor.  Mr.  Brett,  in  his 
coast  scene  above  noticed,  gives  us  things,  without  thoughts  ; 
and  the  fuliginous  moralists  above  noticed,  thoughts — such 
as  they  are — without  things  :  by  all  means  let  us  rather  have 
the  geographical  synopsis. 

415.  Hoppers  on  the  Road.  (W.  Linnell.) 

This  is  a  landscape,  however  ;  and,  if  it  were  more  lightly 
painted,  we  might  be  very  happy  with  it.  Mr.  Linnell  cares 
no  more  than  his  father  for  brush-dexterity  ;  but  he  does  no 
worse  now,  in  that  part  of  the  business,  than  everyone  else. 
And  what  a  relief  it  is,  for  any  wholesome  human  sight,  after 
sickening  itself  among  the  blank  horrors  of  dirt,  ditch-water, 
and  malaria,  which  the  imitators  of  the  French  schools  have 
begrimed  our  various  exhibition  walls  with,  to  find  once  more 
a  bit  of  blue  in  the  sky,  and  a  glow  of  brown  in  the  coppice, 
and  to  see  that  Hoppers  in  Kent  can  enjoy  their  scarlet  and 
purple — like  empresses  and  emperors ! 


200  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


1199.  Summer  Days  for  Me.  (A.  W.  Hunt.) 

I  am  at  some  pause  in  expressing  my  pleasure  in  the  realiza¬ 
tion  of  this  beautiful  scene,  because  I  have  personal  interest 
in  it,  my  own  favorite  summer  walk  being  through  this  very 
field.  As,  however,  I  was  far  away  at  Assisi  when  the  artist 
painted  it,  and  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  either  the 
choice  or  treatment  of  his  subject,  it  is  not  indecorous  for  me 
to  praise  a  work  in  which  I  am  able  so  securely  to  attest  a 
fidelity  of  portraiture,  happily  persisted  in  without  losing  the 
grace  of  imagination. 

It  is  the  only  picture  of  the  year  which  I  saw  in  the  studio ; 
and  that  by  chance  ;  for  it  is  one  of  my  fixed  laws  not  to  look 
at  pictures  before  they  take  their  fair  trial  in  the  Academy. 
But  I  ventured  to  find  fault  with  the  sky.  The  sky  was 
courteously  changed  to  please  me  ;  but  I  am  encroaching 
enough  to  want  it  changed  more.  “  Summer  days  are  ”  not 
“  for  me  ”  unless  the  sky  is  blue  in  them,  and  especially  unless 
it  looks — what  simple  mortals  too  often  make  it  in  reality, — a 
great  way  off.  I  want  this  sky  to  look  bluer  at  the  top,  and 
farther  away  at  the  bottom.  The  brook  on  the  right  is  one 
of  the  very  few  pieces  of  stream  which,  this  year,  have  been 
studied  for  their  beauty,  not  their  rage. 

256.  Wise  Saws.  (J.  C.  Hook,  R.A. ) 

I  suspect  that  many,  even  of  the  painter’s  admirers,  pass 
this  pretty  sketch  without  noticing  the  humor  with  which  he 
has  expressed  the  gradations  of  feminine  curiosity,  scientific 
attention,  and  conscientious  sense  of  responsibility,  in  the 
faces  of  the  troop  of  cows  who  approach  to  investigate  the 
nature  of  the  noisy  phenomenon  upon  the  palings.  It  is  a 
charming  summer  sketch,  but  scarcely  worth  sending  to  the 
Academy ;  and  time  was  wasted  by  the  good  painter  in  carry¬ 
ing  so  far,  what  he  felt  his  skill  would  be  misapplied  in 
carrying  farther. 

I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Hook  cannot  lately  have  been  reading 
his  Richard  H  ;  but,  whether  the  line  quoted  for  his  motto 
chanced  idly  to  occur  to  his  memory,  or  was  suggested  to  him 
by  some  acquaintance,  he  will,  I  trust,  find  a  more  decorous, 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


201 


as  he  easily  may  a  more  amusing,  motto  for  his  pretty  cattle 
piece,  before  it  becomes  known  in  the  picture  market  as  the 
parody  of  one  of  the  most  pathetic  utterances  in  all  Shake¬ 
spearian  tragedy. 

123.  On  the  River  Mole.  (Birket  Foster.) 

In  doubt  whether  the  spectator,  without  assistance,  would 
see  all  the  metaphysical  distinctions  between  the  cows  in  Mr. 
Hook’s  landscape,  I  need  a  more  keen-sighted  spectator’s 
assistance  to  tell  me,  in  Mr.  Foster’s,  whether  those  animals 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Mole  are  cows  at  all.  If  so,  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  in  the  hedge  beyond  are  about  twenty 
yards  in  girth.  What  do  our  good  water-color  painters  mean 
by  wasting  their  time  in  things  like  this  (and  I  could  name 
one  or  two  who  have  done  worse),  for  the  sake  of  getting 
their  names  into  the  Academy  catalogue  ? 

69,  81.  The  Horse-dealer.  Crossing  the  Moor. 

I  have  not  looked  long  enough  at  these  to  justify  me  in 
saying  more  of  them  than  that  they  should  not  be  here  on  the 
line.  That  much  I  must  say  ;  and  emphatically. 

265.  (I  venture  to  supply  a  title,  the  painter  seeming  to 
have  been  at  a  loss.)  A  Wild  Rose,  remarkable  in  being  left 
on  its  stalk,  demonstrates  to  the  poet  Campbell  that  there  has 
been  a  garden  in  this  locality. 

Little  thought  I,  when  I  wrote  the  first  line  of  “  Modern 
Painters,”  that  a  day  would  come  when  I  should  have  to  say 
of  a  modern  picture  what  I  must  say  of  this.  When  I  began 
my  book,  Wilkie  was  yet  living  ;  and  though  spoiled  by  his 
Spanish  ambition,  the  master’s  hand  was  yet  unpalsied,  nor 
had  lost  its  skill  of  practice  in  its  pride.  Turner  was  in  his 
main  color-strength,  and  the  dark  room  of  the  Academy  had, 
every  year,  its  four  or  five  painted  windows,  bright  as  the 
jewel  casements  of  Aladdin’s  palace,  and  soft  as  a  kingfisher  s 
wings.  Mulready  was  at  the  crowning  summit  of  his  laborious 
skill  ;  and  the  “  Burchell  and  Sophia  in  the  Hayfield,  and 
the  “Choosing  of  the  Wedding  Dress,”  remain  in  my  mind  as 


202 


NOTES  ON  TIIE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


standards  of  English  effort  in  rivalship  with  the  best  masters 
of  Holland.  Constable’s  clumsy  hand  was  honest,  and  his 
flickering  sunshine  fair.  Stanfield,  sea-bred,  knew  what  a  ship 
was,  and  loved  it ;  knew  what  rocks  and  waves  were,  and 
wrought  out  their  strength  and  sway  with  steadiest  will. 
David  Roberts,  though  utterly  destitute  of  imagination,  and 
incapable  of  color,  was  at  least  a  practised  draughtsman  in 
his  own  field  of  architectural  decoration  ;  loved  his  Burgos  or 
Seville  cathedral  fronts  as  a  woman  loves  lace  ;  and  drew  the 
details  of  Egyptian  hieroglyph  with  dutiful  patience,  not  to 
show  his  own  skill,  but  to  keep  witness  of  the  antiquity  he 
had  the  wisdom  to  reverence  ;  while,  not  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  Academy  portico,  in  the  room  of  the  old  water- 
color,  Lewis  was  doing  work  which  surpassed,  in  execution, 
everything  extant  since  Carpaccio  ;  and  Copley-Fielding,  Rob¬ 
son,  Cox,  and  Prout  were  everyone  of  them,  according  to 
their  strength,  doing  true  things  with  loving  minds. 

The  like  of  these  last-named  men,  in  simplicity  and  tender* 
ness  of  natural  feeling,  expressing  itself  with  disciplined 
(though  often  narrow)  skill,  does  not,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  now 
exist  in  the  ranks  of  art-laborers  ;  and  even  of  men  doing 
their  absolute  best  according  to  their  knowledge,  it  would  bo 
difficult  to  find  many  among  the  most  renowned  exhibitors  of 
London  and  Paris  ;  while  here,  full  on  the  line,  with  highest 
Academic  name,  and  hailed  by  explosive  applause  from  the 

whole  nation,  here  is - I  cannot  use  strength  of  words 

enough  to  tell  you  what  it  is,  unless  you  will  first  ascertain 
for  yourselves  what  it  is  not. 

Get  what  good  you  can  of  it,  or  anything  else  in  the  rooms 
to-day  ;  but  to-morrow,  or  when  next  you  mean  to  come  to  the 
Academy,  go  first  for  half  an  hour  into  the  National  Gallery, 
and  look  closely  and  thoroughly  at  the  painting  of  the  soldier’s 
helmet,  and  crimson  plume  in  John  Bellini’s  Peter  Martyr ; 
at  the  horse-bridle  in  the  large,  nameless  Venetian  picture  of 
the  Madonna  and  kneeling  Knight ;  at  the  herbage  in  the  fore¬ 
ground  of  Mantegna’s  Madonna  ;  and  at  Titian’s  columbines 
and  vine  in  the  Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  All  these  are  examples 
of  true  painter’s  work  in  minor  detail ;  unsurpassable,  but  not, 


nr  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


203 


by  patience  and  modesty,  inimitable.  There  was  once  a  day 
when  the  painter  of  this  (soi-disant)  landscape  promised  to  do 
work  as  good.  If,  coming  straight  from  that  to  this,  you  like 
this  best,  be  properly  thankful  for  the  blessings  of  modern 
science  and  art,  and  for  all  the  good  guidance  of  Kensington 
and  Messrs.  Agnew.  But  if  you  think  that  the  four-petalled 
rose,  the  sprinkle  of  hips  looking  like  ill-drawn  heather,  the 
sundial  looking  like  an  ill-drawn  fountain,  the  dirty  birch-tree, 
and  the  rest — whatever  it  is  meant  for — of  the  inarticulate 
brown  scrabble,  are  not  likely  to  efface  in  the  eyes  of  future 
generations  the  fame  of  Venice  and  Etruria,  you  have  always 
the  heroic  consolation  given  you  in  the  exclamation  of  the 
Spectator — “If  we  must  choose  between  a  Titian  and  a  Lan¬ 
cashire  cotton  mill — give  us  the  cotton  mill.” 

Literally,  here  you  have  your  cotton  mill  employed  in  its 
own  special  Art-produce.  Here  you  have,  what  was  once  the 
bone  and  sinew  of  a  great  painter,  ground  and  carded  down 
into  black-podded  broom-twigs.  That  is  what  has  come  to 
pass  upon  him  ;  that,  his  finding  on  his  “  ruinous  walk  ”  over 
the  diabolic  Tom  Tidler’s  ground  of  Manchester  and  Salford. 
Threshed  under  the  mammon  flail  into  threads  and  dust,  and 
shoddy-fodder  for  fools  ;  making  manifest  yet,  with  what  rag¬ 
ged  remnant  of  painter’s  life  is  in  him,  the  results  of  mechani¬ 
cal  English  labor  on  English  land.  Not  here  the  garden  of 
the  sluggard,  green  with  frank  weeds  ;  not  here  the  garden  of 
the  Deserted  Village,  overgrown  with  ungathered  balm  ;  not 
here  tire  noble  secrecy  of  a  virgin  country,  where  the  falcon 
floats  and  the  wild  goat  plays  ;  but  here  the  withering  pleas- 
ance  of  a  fallen  race,  who  have  sold  their  hearths  for  money, 
and  their  glory  for  a  morsel  of  bread. 

231.  The  Quarries  of  Holmeground.  (J.  S.  Raven.) 

The  painter  has  real  feeling  of  the  sublimity  of  hill  forms, 
and  has  made  the  most  of  his  Langdale  pikes.  But  it  is  very 
wonderful  that  in  all  this  Academy,  so  far  as  I  have  yet  seen, 
there  is  not  a  single  patient  study  of  a  mossy -rock.  Now  the 
beauty  of  foreground  stone  is  to  be  mossy,  as  the  beauty  of  a 
beast  is  to  be  furry  ;  and  a  quarried  rock  is  to  a  natural  one 


204  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


what  a  skinned  leopard  is  to  a  live  one.  Even  if,  as  a  simple 
painter,  and  no  huntsman,  one  liked  one’s  leopard  or  tiger 
better  dead  than  alive,  at  least  let  us  have  him  dead  in  his 
integrity  ;  or — if  so  much  as  that  cannot  be, — for  pictorial 
purpose  it  is  better  to  have,  as  in  No.  697,  the  skin  without 
the  tiger,  than,  as  here,  the  tiger  without  the  skin.  (No.  697, 
by  the  way,  should  have  been  named  in  the  Natural  History 
class,  for  a  good  study  as  far  as  it  reaches,  and  there  may  be 
more  substantial  drawing  in  it  than  I  can  see  at  the  height 
where  it  is  hung.) 

Another  sorrowful  character  in  the  mountain-painting  of 
this  year,  is  the  almost  total  absence  of  any  attempt  to  ren¬ 
der  calm  and  full  sunshine.  564  and  368  are,  I  think,  the 
only  exceptions,  though  scarcely  worth  noticing  except  as 
such  ;  unless  the  latter,  for  the  extreme  and  singular  beauty 
of  the  natural  scene  it  represents.  The  “Mountain  Twilight,” 
759,  W.  C.  Eddington,  is  evidently  a  pure  and  careful  study 
of  evening  air  among  noble  hills.  What  an  incomparably  rid¬ 
iculous  mob  this  London  mob  is  ! — to  let  some  square  leagues 
of  room  lie  about  its  metropolis  in  waste  brick-field,  and  oc¬ 
cupy  immeasurable  space  of  wall  with  advertisements  of  pills 
and  pictures  of  newly-opened  shops  ;  and  lift  a  lovely  little 
drawing  like  this  simply — out  of  its  way. 

237.  Richmond  Hill.  (Yicat  Cole,  A.) 

The  passages  on  the  left,  under  the  trees,  of  distant  and 
subdued  light,  in  their  well-studied  perfection,  are  about  the 
most  masterly  things  in  landscape  work  in  this  exhibition  ; 
but  has  the  painter  never  in  his  life  seen  the  view  from  Rich¬ 
mond  Hill  on  a  clear  day  ?  Such  a  thing  is  still  possible  ; 
and  when  it  happens,  is  the  time  to  paint  that  distance,  or  at 
least  (for  the  passages  on  the  left  imply  mist),  when  the  in¬ 
distinctness  of  it  may  be  in  golden  mist,  not  gas  fume.  The 
last  line  quoted  from  Thomson  seems  to  have  been  written 
prophetically,  to  describe  the  England  of  our  own  day.  But 
Thomson  was  never  thinking  of  real  smoke  when  he  wrote  it. 
He  was  as  far  from  imagining  that  English  landscape  would 
ever  be  stifled  in  floating  filth,  as  that  the  seasons  should 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


205 


3top  rolling,  or  April  not  know  itself  from  November.  He 
means  merely  the  warm  mist  of  an  extreme  horizon  ;  and  has 
it  least  given  us  something  to  look  at  before  we  come  to  it. 
What  has  Mr.  Yicat  Cole  done  with  all  those  hills,  and  dales, 
md  woods,  and  lawns,  and  spires,  which  he  leads  us  to  ex¬ 
pect  ? 

I  think  I  never  saw  a  large  picture  so  much  injured  by  a 
ittle  fault,  as  this  is  by  the  white  wake  of  the  farthest  boat  on 
he  river.  As  a  fact,  it  is  impossible  ;  as  a  white  line,  it  cuts 
11  to  pieces. 


651.  The  Head  of  a  Highland  Glen.  (F.  C.  Newcome.) 

The  best  study  of  torrent,  including  distant  and  near  water, 
hat  I  find  in  the  rooms  :  1075  has  been  most  carefully  and 
dmirably  studied  from  nature  by  Mr.  Raven  :  only  what  is 
he  use  of  trying  to  draw  water  with  charcoal  ?  and  what 
lakes  nearly  all  the  painters  this  year  choose  to  paint  their 
treams  in  a  rage,  and  foul  with  flood,  instead  of  in  their  beauty, 
nd  constant  beneficence  ?  Our  manufacturers  have  still  left, 
i  some  parts  of  England  and  Scotland,  streams  of  what  may 
e  advertised  in  the  bills  of  Natural  Scenery  as  “  real  water  ;  ” 
nd  I  myself  know  several  so  free  from  pollution  that  one  can 
■it  near  them  with  perfect  safety,  even  when  they  are  not  in 
ood. 

The  rest  of  this  mountain  scene  by  Mr.  Newcome  is  also 
irefully  studied,  and  very  right  and  good. 

756.  The  Llugwy  at  Capel  Curig.  (I.  J.  Curnock.) 

I  find  this  to  be  the  most  attentive  and  refined  landscape  of 
1  here  ;  too  subdued  in  its  tone  for  my  own  pleasure,  but 
rilful  and  affectionate  in  a  high  degree  ;  and  one  of  the  few 
iceptions  to  my  general  statement  above  made  ;  for  here  is 
calm  stream  patiently  studied.  The  distant  woods  and  hills 
e  all  very  tender  and  beautiful. 


636  is  also  a  singularly  careful  and  unassumingly  true  draw- 
g  ; — but  are  the  town  and  rail  not  disquieted  enough, — that 
3  should  get  no  rest  in  a  village  ? 


NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


20G 


POLICY. 

We  finally  inquire  what  our  British  artists  have  to  say  to  us 
on  the  subject  of  good  Government,  and  its  necessary  results ; 
— what  triumph  they  express  in  the  British  Constitution  and 
its  present  achievements. 

In  old  times,  all  great  artistic  nations  were  pictorialiy  talka¬ 
tive,  chiefly,  next  to  religion,  on  the  subject  of  Government. 
Venice,  Florence,  and  Siena  did  little  else  than  expound,  in 
figures  and  mythic  types,  the  nature  of  civic  dignity,  states- 
manly  duty,  and  senatorial  or  soldierly  honor ;  and  record, 
year  by  year,  the  events  conducive  to  their  fame. 

I  have  not  exhaustively  overlooked  the  Academy  ;  but,  ex¬ 
cept  Miss  Thomson’s  study  of  a  battle  fought  just  “  sixty 
years  since,  ”■ — I  find  no  English  record  of  any  important  mili¬ 
tary  or  naval  achievement ;  and  the  only  exhibition  of  the 
mode  in  which  Britannia  at  present  rules  the  waves,  is  Mr. 
Cooke’s  “  Devastation  ”  being  reviewed  ;  somewhat  sable  and 
lugubrious  as  a  national  spectacle,  dubious  as  a  national 
triumph,  and  to  myself,  neither  in  color  nor  sentiment  enjoy¬ 
able,  as  the  pictures  of  Victorys  and  Temeraires  one  used  to 
see  in  days  of  simpler  warfare.  And  of  political  achievement 
there  seems  still  less  consciousness  or  regard  in  the  British 
artist ;  so  that  future  generations  will  ask  in  vain  for  any  aid 
to  their  imagination  of  the  introduction  of  Dr.  Kenealy  to  the 
Speaker,  or  any  other  recent  triumph  of  the  British  Consti¬ 
tution. 

The  verdict  of  existing  British  Art  on  existing  British 
Policy  is,  therefore,  if  I  understand  it  rightly,  that  we  have 
none  ;  but,  in  the  battle  of  life,  have  arrived  at  declaration 
of  an  universal  Sauve  qui  peut  ; — or  explicitly,  to  all  men,  Do 
as  you  like,  and  get  what  you  can.  Something  other  than  this 
may  however  be  gathered,  it  seems  to  me,  from  the  two  records 
given  us  of  the  war, — so  unwise,  and  yet  so  loyal, — of  sixty 
years  ago. 


IN  THE  ROYAL  ACADEMY. 


207 


613.  La  Charge  des  Cuirassiers  Franyais  a  Waterloo.  (Phi- 
lippoteau.) 

This  carefully  studied  and  most  skilful  battle  piece  is  but 
too  likely  to  be  overlooked  in  the  confused  rush  to  Miss  Thom¬ 
son’s  more  attractive  composition.  And  of  all  in  the  Academy, 
this  is  the  picture  which  an  Englishman,  of  right  feeling,  would 
least  wish  to  overlook.  I  remember  no  so  impartial  and 
faithful  representation  of  an  historical  battle.  I  know  no  war¬ 
painting  by  the  artists  of  any  great  race,  however  modest,  in 
which  the  object  has  not  hitherto  been  definitely — self-lauda¬ 
tion.  But  here  is  a  piece  of  true  war-history,  of  which  it  is 
not  possible  to  say,  by  observance  of  any  traceable  bias, 
whether  a  Frenchman  or  Englishman  painted  it.  Such  a 
picture  is  more  honorable  to  France  than  the  taking  of  the 
Malakoff. 

I  never  approached  a  picture  with  more  iniquitous  prejudice 
against  it,  than  I  did  Miss  Thomson’s  ;  partly  because  I  have 
always  said  that  no  woman  could  paint ;  and  secondly,  because 
I  thought  what  the  public  made  such  a  fuss  about,  must  be 
good  for  nothing. 

But  it  is  Amazon’s  work,  this  ;  no  doubt  of  it,  and  the  first 
fine  pre-Baphaelite  *  picture  of  battle  we  have  had; — profoundly 
interesting  ;  and  showing  all  manner  of  illustrative  and  realis¬ 
tic  faculty.  Of  course,  all  that  need  be  said  of  it,  on  this  side, 
must  have  been  said  twenty  times  over  in  the  journals ;  and  it 
remains  only  for  me  to  make  my  tardy  genuflection,  on  the 
trampled  corn,  before  this  Pallas  of  Pall  Mall ; — and  to  mur¬ 
mur  my  poor  words  of  warning  to  her,  that  she  remember,  in 
aer  day  of  triumph,  how  it  came  to  pass  that  Atlanta  was 
jtajmd  and  Camilla  slain. 

Camilla-like  the  work  is — chiefly  in  its  refinement,  a  quality 


*  Miss  Thomson  may  perhaps  not  in  the  least  know  herself  for  a  sister 
>f  the  school.  But  the  entire  power  of  her  picture,  as  of  her  own  mind, 
lepends  first  on  her  resolution  to  paint  things  as  they  really  are,  or 
were;  and  not  as  they  might  be  poetically  fancied  to  be.  See  above, 
he  note  on  218,  p.  176. 


! 


208  NOTES  ON  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


I  had  not  in  the  least  expected,  for  the  cleverest  women 
almost  always  show  their  weakness  in  endeavors  to  be 
dashing.  But  actually,  here,  what  I  suppose  few  people  would 
think  of  looking  at,  the  sky,  is  the  most  tenderly  painted,  and 
with  the  truest  outlines  of  cloud,  of  all  in  the  exhibition  ; — and 
the  terrific  piece  of  gallant  wrath  and  ruin  on  the  extreme 
right,  where  the  cuirassier  is  catching  round  the  neck  of  his 
horse  as  he  falls,  and  the  convulsed  fallen  horse  just  seen 
through  the  smoke  below — is  wrought,  through  all  the  truth 
of  its  frantic  passion,  with  gradations  of  color  and  shade 
which  I  have  not  seen  the  like  of  since  Turner’s  death. 

I  place  these  two  paintings  under  the  head  of  “Policy,”  be¬ 
cause  it  seems  to  me  that,  especially  before  the  Quatrebras, 
one  might  wisely  consider  with  Mr.  Carlyle,  and  with  one’s  self, 
what  was  the  “  net  upshot  ”  and  meaning  of  our  modern  form 
of  the  industry  of  war.  Why  should  these  wild  and  well- 
meaning  young  Irish  lads  have  been  brought,  at  great  expense, 
all  the  way  to  Four  Arms,  merely  to  knock  equally  wild  and 
well-meaning  young  French  lads  out  of  their  saddles  into 
their  graves  ;  and  take  delight  in  doing  so  ?  And  why  should 
the  English  and  French  squires  at  the  head  of  their  regiments, 
have,  practically,  no  other  object  in  life  than  deceiving  these 
poor  boys,  and  an  infinite  mob  besides  of  such  others,  to  their 
destruction  ? 

Think  of  it.  Suppose  this  picture,  as  well  as  the  one  I  was 
so  happy  in  praising  of  Mr.  Collinson’s,  had  been  called — as  it 
also,  quite  properly,  might  have  been — “  Sunday  Afternoon” 
(only  dating  “June  18th,  1815”).  Suppose  the  two  had  been 
hung  side  by  side.  And,  to  complete  our  materials  for  medi¬ 
tation,  suppose  Mr.  Nicol’s  “  The  Sabbath  Day  ”  (1159) — 
which  I  observed  the  Daily  Telegraph  called  an  exquisitely 
comic  picture,  but  which  I  imagine  Mr.  Nicol  meant  for  a  se¬ 
rious  one — representing  the  conscientious  Scottish  mountain- 
matron  setting  out  for  the  place  where  she  may  receive  her 
cake  of  spiritual  oatmeal,  baken  on  the  coals  of  Presbyterian 
zeal ;  suppose,  I  say,  this  ideal  of  Scottish  Sabbath  occu¬ 
pation  placed  beside  M.  Philippoteau’s  admirable  painting  of 
the  Highland  regiment  at  evening  missionary  service,  in  that 


IN  THE  ROYAL  AO  ALE  NY. 


209 


/ 


sweet  and  fruitful  foreign  land  ;  while  Miss  Thomson  enables 
us  also,  thus  meditating  in  our  fields  at  eventide,  to  consider, 
if  not  the  Lilies,  at  least  the  Poppies  of  them  ;  and  to  under¬ 
stand  how  in  this  manner  of  friction  of  ears  of  corn — by  his 
bent  knees  instead  of  his  fingers — the  modern  Christian  shows 
that  the  Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for  the  Sab¬ 
bath? 

“  Well — and  if  this  were  so  done, — should  we  not  feel  that 
the  peace  of  the  cottage,  and  the  honor  of  the  mountain-side, 
were  guarded  and  won  for  them  by  that  mighty  Evening  Ser¬ 
vice,  with  the  thunder  of  its  funeral  march  rolled  deep  among 
the  purple  clouds  ?  ” 

No  !  my  soldier  friends  ;  no :  do  not  think  it.  They  were, 
and  are,  guarded  and  won  by  silent  virtues  of  the  hearth  and 
the  rock,  which  must  endure  until  the  time  when  the  prayer 
we  pray  in  our  every  Sabbath  Litany,  to  be  delivered  from 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death — shall  have  been  offered 
with  sincere  hearts,  fervently ;  and  so  found  its  way  at  last 
to  the  audience  of  Heaven. 


NOTE  TO  PICTURE  518. 

“  The  rarity  and  grandeur  of  his  character  being  that  he  was  a  Greek 
in  ideas  and  a  Roman  in  action  ;  who  really  did,  and  abstained,  strictly 
to  ideal,  in  a  time  when  everybody  else  was  sadly  fallen  from  his  ideal. 

“  In  353  he  is  made  Csesar  (Constantius  having  no  sons,  and  he 
being  last  of  his  race);  and  from  that  to  Constantius'  death  in  3G1  he 
las  to  fight  the  Franks  and  Alemanni.  During  the  last  few  years  of 
his  time  I  find  he  lived  mostly  at  Paris — that  he  fortified  the  ancient 
mtetia  (Pile  de  la  Cite),  built  the  Thermae  Juliani,  the  remains  of  which, 
Tkermes  de  Julien)  are  still  visible  in  the  Rue  de  la  Ilarpe,  between 
>alais  de  Cluny  and  Ecole  de  Medecine.  Also,  in  a  scarcity  of  corn 
rom  inroads  of  the  Germans,  he  got  a  great  supply  of  corn  from  Eng- 
and  (calculated  at  120,000  quarters  at  once 0 — and  fed  people  all  along 
he  Rhine  from  Bingen  to  Cologne.  He  says  (Fpist.  ii. )  he  was  a  Christian 
p  to  his  twentieth  year,  351  ;  and  he  said  nothing  about  his  change  (in 
ublic)  till  361.  Then  he  felt  himself  the  successor  of  M.  Aurelius,  and 
?ems  to  have  gone  to  work  in  his  determined,  clear-sighted  way.  But 
ie  Pagans  seem  to  have  been  surprised  at  his  faith  as  much  as  the 
kristians  at  his  apostasy.” — Rev.  R.  St.  J.  Tybwhitt. 

14 


NOTES  BY  MB.  BUSKIN 


ON 

SAMUEL  PEOUT 

AND 

WILLIAM  HUNT, 

ILLUSTRATED  BY 

A  LOAN  COLLECTION  OF  DRAWINGS 

EXHIBITED  AT 

THE  FINE  ART  SOCIETY'S  GALLERIES , 


148  NEW  BOND  STREET. 

1879-80. 


» 


NOTE. 

I  have  to  thank  the  kind  friends  who  have  contributed 
drawings.  I  regret  that  very  many  of  them  have  had  to  be 
returned,  simply  because  I  had  already  to  my  hand  examples 
which  sufficiently  illustrated  the  lessons  I  wished  to  teach  in 
putting  together  these  notes. 


J.  Buskin. 


f 


PKEFACE. 


It  has  been  only  in  compliance  with  the  often  and  earnestly 
urged  request  of  my  friend  Mr.  Marcus  Huish,  that  I  have 
thrown  the  following  notes  together,  on  the  works  of  two 
artists  belonging  to  a  time  with  which  nearly  all  associations 
are  now  ended  in  the  mind  of  general  society  ;  and  of  which 
my  own  memories,  it  seemed  to  me,  could  give  little  pleasure 
(even  if  I  succeeded  in  rendering  them  intelligible)  to  a  public 
indulged  with  far  more  curious  arts,  and  eager  for  otherwise 
poignant  interests  than  those  which  seemed  admirable, — 
though  not  pretending  to  greatness,  and  were  felt  to  be  delight¬ 
ful, — though  not  provoking  enthusiasm,  in  the  quiet  and 
little  diverted  lives  of  the  English  middle  classes,  “  sixty  years 
since." 

It  is  especially  to  be  remembered  that  drawings  of  this  sim¬ 
ple  character  were  made  for  the  same  middle  classes,  exclu¬ 
sively  :  and  even  for  the  second  order  of  the  middle  classes, 
more  accurately  expressed  by  the  term  “  bourgeoisie."  The 
great  people  always  bought  Canaletto,  not  Prout,  and  Van 
Huysum,  not  Hunt.  There  was  indeed  no  quality  in  the 
bright  little  water-colors,  which  could  look  other  than  pert 
in  ghostly  corridors,  and  petty  in  halls  of  state  ;  but  they 
gave  an  unquestionable  tone  of  liberal-mindedness  to  a  subur¬ 
ban  villa,  and  were  the  cheerfullest  possible  decorations  for  a 
moderate-sized  breakfast  parlor,  opening  on  a  nicely  mown 
lawn.  Their  liveliness  even  rose,  on  occasion,  to  the  charity 
of  beautifying  the  narrow  chambers  of  those  whom  business 
or  fixed  habit  still  retained  in  the  obscurity  of  London  itself ; 
and  I  remember  with  peculiar  respect  the  pride  of  a  benevo¬ 
lent  physician,  who  never  would  exchange  his  neighborhood 


216 


PREFACE. 


to  the  poor  of  St.  Giles’s  for  the  lucrative  lustre  of  a  West 
End  Square,  in  wreathing  his  tiny  little  front  drawing-room 
with  Hunt’s  loveliest  apple-blossom,  and  taking  the  patients 
for  whom  he  had  prescribed  fresh  air,  the  next  instant  on  a 
little  visit  to  the  country. 

Nor  was  this  adaptation  to  the  tastes  and  circumstances  of 
the  London  citizen,  a  constrained  or  obsequious  compliance 
on  the  part  of  the  kindly  artists.'  They  were  themselves,  in 
mind,  as  in  habits  of  life,  completely  a  part  of  the  character¬ 
istic  metropolitan  population  whom  an  occasional  visit  to  the 
Continent  always  thrilled  with  surprise  on  finding  themselves 
again  among  persons  who  familiarly  spoke  French  ;  and  whose 
summer  holidays,  though  more  customary,  amused  them  nev¬ 
ertheless  with  the  adventure,  and  beguiled  them  with  the  pas¬ 
toral  charm,  of  an  uninterrupted  picnic.  Mr.  Prout  lived  at 
Brixton,  just  at  the  rural  extremity  of  Cold  Harbor  Lane, 
where  the  spire  of  Brixton  church,  the  principal  architectural 
ornament  of  the  neighborhood,  could  not  but  greatly  exalt, 
by  comparison,  the  impressions  received  from  that  of  Stras- 
burg  Cathedral,  or  the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Bruxelles  ;  and  Mr. 
Hunt,  though  often  in  the  spring  and  summer  luxuriating  in 
country  lodgings,  was  only  properly  at  home  in  the  Hamp¬ 
stead  road,*  and  never  painted  a  cluster  of  nuts  without  some 
expression,  visible  enough  by  the  manner  of  their  presenta¬ 
tion,  of  the  pleasure  it  was  to  him  to  see  them  in  the  shell, 
instead  of  in  a  bag  at  the  greengrocer’s. 

The  lightly  rippled  level  of  this  civic  life  lay,  as  will  be 
easily  imagined,  far  beneath  the  distractions,  while  it  main¬ 
tained  itself  meekly,  yet  severely,  independent  of  the  advan¬ 
tages  held  out  by  the  social  system  of  what  is  most  reverently 
called  “Town.”  Neither  the  disposition,  the  health,  nor  the 
means  of  either  artist  admitted  of  their  spending  their  even¬ 
ings,  in  general,  elsewhere  than  by  their  own  firesides  ;  nor 
could  a  spring  levee  of  English  peeresses  and  foreign  ambas¬ 
sadors  be  invited  by  the  modest  painter  whose  only  studio 
was  his  little  back-parlor,  commanding  a  partial  view  of  the 


*  See  liis  own  inscription,  with  London  in  capitals,  under  No. 


PREFACE. 


217 


scullery  steps  and  the  water-butt.  The  fluctuations  of  moral 
and  aesthetic  sentiment  in  the  public  mind  were  of  small 
moment  to  the  humble  colorist,  who  depended  only  on  the 
consistency  of  its  views  on  the  subject  of  early  strawberries  ; 
and  the  thrilling  subjects  presented  by  the  events  or  politics 
of  the  day  were  equally  indifferent  to  the  designer  who  in¬ 
vited  interest  to  nothing  later  than  the  architecture  of  the 
15th  century.  Even  the  treasures  of  scientific  instruction, 
and  marvels  of  physical  discovery,  were  without  material  in¬ 
fluence  on  the  tranquillity  of  the  two  native  painters’  unedu¬ 
cated  skill.  Prout  drew  every  lovely  street  in  Europe  with¬ 
out  troubling  himself  to  learn  a  single  rule  of  perspective ; 
while  Hunt  painted  mossy  banks  for  five-and-twenty  years 
without  ever  caring  to  know  a  Sphagnum  from  a  Polypody, 
and  embossed  or  embowered  his  birds’  eggs  to  a  perfection, 
which  Greek  connoisseurs  would  have  assured  us  the  mother 
had  unsuspectingly  sate  on — without  enlarging  his  range  of 
ornithological  experience  beyond  the  rarities  of  tomtit  and 
hedge-sparrow. 

This  uncomplaining  resignation  of  patronage,  and  unblush¬ 
ing  blindness  to  instruction,  were  allied,  in  both  painters, 
with  a  steady  consistency  in  technical  practice,  which,  from 
the  first,  and  to  the  last,  precluded  both  from  all  hope  of  pro¬ 
motion  to  the  honors,  as  it  withheld  them  from  the  peril  of 
entanglement  in  the  rivalries,  connected  with  the  system 
of  exhibition  in  the  Royal  Academy.  Mr.  Prout’s  method  of 
work  was  entirely  founded  on  the  quite  elementary  qualities 
of  white  paper  and  black  Cumberland  lead  ;  and  expressly 
terminated  within  the  narrow  range  of  prismatic  effects  pro¬ 
ducible  by  a  brown  or  blue  outline,  with  a  wash  of  ochre  or 
cobalt.  Mr.  Hunt’s  early  drawings  depended  for  their  pecul¬ 
iar  charm  on  the  most  open  and  simple  management  of  trans¬ 
parent  color ;  and  his  later  ones,  for  their  highest  attain¬ 
ments,  on  the  flexibility  of  a  pigment  which  yielded  to  the 
i  slightest  touch  and  softest  motion  of  a  hand  always  more  sen- 
'  sitive  than  firm.  The  skill  which  unceasing  practice,  within 
limits  thus  modestly  unrelaxed,  and  with  facilities  of  instru¬ 
ment  thus  openly  confessed,  enabled  each  draughtsman  in  his 


218 


PREFACE. 


special  path  to  attain,  was  exerted  with  a  vividness  of  instinct 
somewhat  resembling  that  of  animals,  only  in  the  slightest 
degree  conscious  of  praiseworthiness,  but  animated  by  a 
healthy  complacency,  as  little  anxious  for  external  sympathy 
as  the  self-content  of  a  bee  in  the  translucent  symmetry  of  its 
cell,  or  of  a  chaffinch  in  the  silvery  tracery  of  her  nest — and 
uniting,  through  the  course  of  their  uneventful  and  active 
lives,  the  frankness  of  the  bird  with  the  industry  of  the  in¬ 
sect. 

In  all  these  points  of  view  the  drawings  to  which  I  venture, 
not  without  hesitation,  to  call  the  passing  attention  of  the 
public,  can  claim  regard  only  as  examples  of  genius  both  nar¬ 
rowed  and  depressed ;  yet  healthy  enough  to  become  more 
elastic  under  depression  ;  and  scintillant  enough  to  be  made 
more  vivid  by  contraction.  But  there  are  other  respects  in 
which  these  seemingly  unimportant  works  challenge  graver 
study  ;  and  illustrate  phases  of  our  own  national  mind — I 
might  perhaps  say,  even  of  national  civilization — which  coin¬ 
cide  with  many  curious  changes  in  social  feelings  ;  and  may 
lead  to  results  not  easily  calculable  in  social  happiness. 

If  the  reader  has  any  familiarity  with  the  galleries  of  paint¬ 
ing  in  the  great  cities  of  Europe,  he  cannot  but  retain  a 
clear,  though  somewhat  monotonously  calm,  impression  of  the 
character  of  those  polished  flower-pieces,  or  still-life  pieces, 
which  occupy  subordinate  corners  in  their  smaller  rooms  ; 
and  invite  to  moments  of  repose,  or  frivolity,  the  attention 
and  imagination  which  have  been  wearied  in  admiring  the  at¬ 
titudes  of  heroism,  and  sympathizing  with  the  sentiments  of 
piety.  Recalling  to  his  memory  the  brightest  examples  of 
these  which  his  experience  can  supply,  he  will  find  that  all 
the  older  ones  agree — if  flower-pieces — in  a  certain  courtli¬ 
ness  and  formality  of  arrangement,  implying  that  the  highest 
honors  which  flowers  can  attain  are  in  being  wreathed  into 
grace  of  garlands,  or  assembled  in  variegation  of  bouquets, 
for  the  decoration  of  beauty,  or  flattery  of  noblesse.  If  fruit 
or  still-life  pieces,  they  agree  no  less  distinctly  in  directness 
of  reference  to  the  supreme  hour  when  the  destiny  of  digni¬ 
fied  fruit  is  to  be  accomplished  in  a  royal  dessert ;  and  the 


PREFACE. 


219 


furred  and  feathered  life  of  hill  and  forest  may  bear  witness 
to  the  Wisdom  of  Providence  by  its  extinction  for  the  kitchen 
dresser. 

Irrespectively  of  these  ornamental  virtues,  and  culinary 
utilities,  the  painter  never  seems  to  perceive  any  conditions 
of  beauty  in  the  things  themselves,  which  would  make  them 
worth  regard  for  their  own  sake :  nor,  even  in  these  appointed 
functions,  are  they  ever  supposed  to  be  worth  painting,  un¬ 
less  the  pleasures  they  procure  be  distinguished  as  those  of 
the  most  exalted  society.  No  artists  of  the  old  school  would 
ever  think  of  constructing  a  subject  out  of  the  herbs  of  a  cot¬ 
tage  garden,  or  viands  of  a  rural  feast.  Whatever  interest 
was  then  taken  in  the  life  of  the  lower  orders  involved  always 

some  reference  to  their  rudenesses  or  vices  ;  and  rarely  exhib- 

'  */ 

its  itself  in  any  other  expression  than  that  of  contempt  for 
their  employments,  and  reproach  to  their  recreation. 

In  all  such  particulars  the  feelings  shown  in  the  works  of 
Hunt,  and  of  the  school  with  which  he  was  associated,  direct¬ 
ly  reverse  those  of  the  preceding  age.  So  far  from  being 
garlanded  into  any  polite  symmetry,  his  primroses  fresh  from 
the  bank,  and  hawthorns  white  from  the  hedge,  confess  at 
once  their  artless  origin  in  the  village  lane — have  evidently 
been  gathered  only  at  the  choice,  and  thrown  down  at  the 
caprice,  of  the  farmer’s  children,  and  cheerfully  disclaim  all 
hope  of  ever  contributing  to  the  splendors  or  felicities  of  the 
great.  The  bloom  with  which  he  bedews  the  grape,  the 
frosted  gold  with  which  he  frets  the  pine,  are  spent  chiefly 
to  show  what  a  visible  grace  there  is  in  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
which  wTe  may  sometimes  feel  that  it  is  rude  to  touch,  and 
swinish  to  taste  ;  and  the  tenderness  of  hand  and  thought 
that  soothe  the  rose-gray  breast  of  the  fallen  dove,  and  weave 
the  couch  of  moss  for  its  quiet  wings,  propose  no  congratula¬ 
tion  to  the  spectator  on  the  future  flavor  of  the  bird  in  a 
pie. 

It  is  a  matter  of  extreme  difficulty,  but  of  no  less  interest, 
to  distinguish,  in  this  order  of  painting,  what  part  of  if  has 
its  origin  in  a  plebeian — not  to  say  vulgar — simplicity,  which 
education  would  have  invested  with  a  severer  charm  ;  and 


220 


PREFACE. 


what  part  is  grounded  on  a  real  sense  of  natural  beauty,  more 
pure  and  tender  than  could  be  discerned  amid  the  luxury  of 
courts,  or  stooped  to  by  the  pride  of  nobles. 

For  an  especial  instance,  the  drawing  of  the  interior,  No. 
174,  may  be  taken  as  a  final  example  of  the  confidence  which 
the  painter  felt  in  his  power  of  giving  some  kind  of  interest 
to  the  most  homely  objects,  and  rendering  the  transitions  of 
ordinary  light  and  shade  impressive,  though  he  had  nothing 
more  sacred  to  illuminate  than  a  lettuce,  and  nothing  more 
terrible  to  hide  than  a  reaping-hook.  The  dim  light  from 
the  flint-glass  window,  and  the  general  disposition  and  scale 
of  the  objects  it  falls  on,  remind  me  sometimes,  however  un¬ 
reasonably,  of  the  little  oratory  into  which  the  deeply-worn 
steps  ascend  from  the  Beauchamp  Chapel  at  Warwick.  But 
I  know  perfectly  well,  and  partly  acknowledge  the  rightness  of 
his  judgment,  though  I  cannot  analyze  it,  that  Hunt  would  no 
more  have  painted  that  knightly  interior  instead  of  this,  with 
helmets  lying  about  instead  of  saucepans,  and  glowing  herald¬ 
ries  staying  the  light  instead  of  that  sea-green  lattice,  than 
he  would  have  gone  for  a  walk  round  his  farm  in  a  court 
dress. 

“  Plebeian — not  to  say  vulgar  ” — choice  ;  but  I  fear  that 
even  “vulgar,”  with  full  emphasis,  must  be  said  sometimes 
in  the  end.  Not  that  a  pipkin  of  cream  in  Devonshire  is  to 
be  thought  of  less  reverently  than  a  vase  of  oil  or  canister  of 
bread  in  Attica  ;  but  that  the  English  dairy-maid  in  her  way 
can  hold  her  own  with  the  Attic  Canepliora,  and  the  peasant 
children  of  all  countries  where  leaves  are  green  and  waters 
clear,  possess  a  grace  of  their  own  no  less  divine  than  that  of 
branch  and  wave.  And  it  is  to  be  sorrowfully  confessed  that 
the  good  old  peach  and  apple  painter  was  curiously  insensible 
to  this  brighter  human  beauty,  and  though  he  could  scarcely 
pass  a  cottage  door  around  his  Berkshire  home  without  seeing 
groups  of  which  Correggio  would  have  made  Cupids,  and 
Luioi  cherubs,  turned  away  from  them  all,  to  watch  the  rough 
plough-boy  at  his  dinner,  or  enliven  a  study  of  his  parlor¬ 
maid  at  her  glass  (158),  with  the  elegance  of  a  red  and  green 
pincushion. 


PREFACE. 


221 


And  yet,  for  all  this,  the  subtle  sense  of  beauty  above  re¬ 
ferred  to  was  always  in  his  mind,  and  may  be  proved,  and 
partly  illustrated,  by  notice  of  two  very  minute,  but  very 
constant,  differences  between  his  groups  of  still  life  and 
those  of  the  Dutch  painters.  In  every  flower-piece  of 
pretension,  by  the  masters  of  that  old  school,  two  accessory 
points  of  decoration  are  never  absent.  The  first  of  these  is 
the  dew-drop,  or  rain-drop — it  may  be  two  or  three  drops,  of 
either  size,  on  one  of  the  smoothest  petals  of  the  central 
flower.  This  is  always,  and  quite  openly,  done  to  show  how 
well  the  painter  can  do  it — not  in  the  least  with  any  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  wetness  in  the  flower.  The  Dutchman  never  got  a 
wet  flower  to  paint  from.  He  had  his  exquisite  and  exem¬ 
plary  poppy  or  tulip  brought  in  from  the  market  as  he  had 
occasion,  and  put  on  its  dew-drops  for  it  as  a  lady’s  dressing- 
maid  puts  on  her  diamonds,  merely  for  state.  But  Hunt  saw 
the  flowers  in  his  little  garden  really  bright  in  the  baptismal 
dawn,  or  drenched  with  the  rain  of  noontide,  and  knew  that 
no  mortal  could  paint  any  real  likeness  of  that  heaven-slied 
light — and  never  once  attempted  it ;  you  will  find  nothing 
in  any  of  his  pictures  merely  put  on  that  you  may  try  to 
wipe  it  off. 

But  there  was  a  further  tour-de-force  demanded  of  the 
Dutch  workman,  without  which  all  his  happiest  preceding 
achievements  would  have  been  unacknowledged.  Not  onty  a 
dew-drop,  but,  in  some  depth  of  bell,  or  cranny  of  leaf,  a 
bee,  or  a  fly,  was  needful  for  the  complete  satisfaction  of  the 
connoisseur.  In  the  articulation  of  the  fly’s  legs,  or  neurog¬ 
raphy  of  the  bee’s  wings,  the  Genius  of  painting  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  signify  her  accepted  disciples  ;  and  their  work  went 
forth  to  the  European  world,  thenceforward,  without  ques¬ 
tion,  as  worthy  of  its  age  and  country.  But,  without  recog¬ 
nizing  in  myself,  or  desiring  to  encourage  in  my  scholars, 
any  unreasonable  dislike  or  dread  of  the  lower  orders  of 
living  creatures,  I  trust  that  the  reader  will  feel  with  me  that 
none  of  Mr.  Hunt’s  peaches  or  plums  would  be  made  daintier 
by  the  detection  on  them  of  even  the  most  cunningly  latent 
wasp,  or  cautiously  rampant  caterpillar ;  and  will  accept, 


222 


PREFACE. 


without  so  much  opposition  as  it  met  with  forty  years  ago, 
my  then  first  promulgated,  but  steadily  since  repeated  asser¬ 
tion,  that  the  “  modern  painter  ”  had  in  these  matters  less 
vanity  than  the  ancient  one,  and  better  taste. 

Another  interesting  evidence  of  Hunt’s  feeling  for  beauty 
is  to  be  found  in  the  unequal  distribution  of  his  pains  to 
different  parts  of  his  subject.  This  is  indeed,  one  of  the 
peculiar  characteristics  of  our  modern  manner,  and  in  the 
abstract,  not  a  laudable  one.  All  the  old  masters,  without 
exception,  complete  their  pictures  from  corner  to  corner  with 
a  strictly  driven  level  of  deliberation  ;  and  whether  it  be  a 
fold  of  drapery,  a  blade  of  grass,  or  a  wreath  of  cloud,  on 
which  they  are  subordinately  occupied,  the  pencil  moves 
at  the  same  tranquil  pace,  and  the  qualities  of  the  object  are 
rendered  with  the  same  fixed  attention.  In  this  habitual 
virtue,  the  dull  and  the  brilliant,  the  weak  and  the  mighty, 
concur  without  exception  ;  holding  it  for  their  first  point  of 
honor  to  be  thorough  craftsmen  ;  and  to  carry  on  the  so¬ 
licitude  of  their  skill  throughout  the  piece,  as  an  armorer 
would  hammer  a  corslet,  or  a  housewife  knit  a  stocking, 
leaving  no  edge  untempered,  and  no  thread  unfastened. 
Modern  petulance  and  incompetence  lead,  on  the  contrary, 
to  the  flaunting  of  dexterity  in  one  place,  and  the  pretence 
of  ease  in  another — complete  some  portions  of  the  subject 
with  hypocritical  affection,  and  abandon  others  in  ostenta¬ 
tious  contempt.  In  some  few  cases,  the  manner  arises  from 
a  true  eagerness  of  imagination,  or  kindly  and  natural  desire 
for  sympathy  in  particular  likings  ;  but  in  the  plurality  of 
instances,  the  habit  allies  itself  with  mistaken  principles  of 
art,  and  protects  impatience  and  want  of  skill  under  the 
shield  of  philosophy. 

Few  modern  pieces  of  oil-painting  are  more  accomplished 
or  deliberate  than  those  of  Meissonier :  and  in  the  example 
placed  on  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  his  subject  was 
one  which  he  certainly  would  not  have  treated,  consciously, 
with  prosaic  indignity  of  manner,  or  injurious  economy  of 
toil.  Yet  the  inequality  of  workmanship  has  depressed  what 
might  have  been  a  most  sublime  picture  almost  to  the  level  of 


PREFACE. 


223 


a  scenic  effect.  The  dress  of  the  Emperor  and  housings  of 
his  steed  are  wrought  with  the  master’s  utmost  care :  but  the 
landscape  is  nearly  unintelligible,  and  the  ground  a  mere 
conventional  diaper  of  feeble  green  and  gray. 

It  is  difficult  to  describe  the  height  to  which  the  picture 
would  have  risen  above  its  present  power,  if  a  ruined  French 
village  had  been  represented  with  Flemish  precision  amidst 
the  autumnal  twilight  of  the  woods  ;  and  the  ground  over 
which  the  wearied  horse  bears  his  dreaming  rider,  made 
lovely  with  its  native  wild-flowers. 

In  all  such  instances,  the  hold  which  a  true  sense  of  beauty 
has  over  the  painter’s  mind  may  be  at  once  ascertained  by 
observing  the  nature  of  the  objects  to  which  his  pains  have 
been  devoted.  No  master  with  a  fine  instinct  for  color  would 
spend  his  time  with  deliberate  preference  on  the  straps  and 
buckles  of  modern  horse-furniture,  rather  than  on  the  sur¬ 
rounding  landscape  or  foreground  flowers,  though  in  a  subject 
like  this  he  would  have  felt  it  right  to  finish  both,  to  the 
spectator’s  content,  if  not  to  his  amazement.  And  among  the 
numerous  rustic  scenes  by  Hunt  which  adorn  these  walls, 
though  all  are  painted  with  force  and  spirit,  none  are  recom¬ 
mended  to  our  curiosity  by  an  elaborate  finish  given  to 
ungraceful  objects.  His  final  powers  are  only  employed  on 
motives  like  the  dead  doves  in  Nos.  139  and  145,  accompanied 
by  incidents  more  or  less  beautiful  and  seemly. 

I  must  even  further  guard  my  last  sentence,  by  the  admis¬ 
sion  that  the  means  by  which  his  utmost  intentions  of  finish  are 
accomplished,  can  never,  in  the  most  accurate  sense,  be  termed 
“  elaborate.”  When  the  thing  to  be  represented  is  minute, 
the  touches  which  express  it  are  necessarily  minute  also  ; 
they  cannot  be  bold  on  the  edge  of  a  nutshell,  nor  free 
within  the  sphere  of  a  bird’s  nest ;  but  they  are  always  frank 
and  clear,  to  a  degree  which  may  seem  not  only  imperfect, 
but  even  harsh  or  offensive,  to  eyes  trained  in  more  tender  or 
more  formal  schools.  This  broken  execution  by  detached 
and  sharply  defined  touches  became  indeed,  in  process  of 
years,  a  manner  in  which  the  painter  somewhat  too  visibly 
indulged,  or  prided  himself  ;  but  it  had  its  origin  and  author- 


224 


PREFACE. 


ity  in  the  care  with  which  he  followed  the  varieties  of  color 
in  the  shadow,  no  less  than  in  the  lights,  of  even  the  smallest 
objects.  It  is  easy  to  obtain  smoothness  and  unity  of  grada¬ 
tion  when  working  with  a  single  tint,  but  if  all  accidents  of 
local  color  and  all  differences  of  hue  between  direct  and  re¬ 
flected  light  are  to  be  rendered  with  absolute  purity,  some 
breaking  of  the  texture  becomes  inevitable.  In  many  cases, 
also,  of  the  most  desirable  colors,  no  pigments  mixed  on  the 
palette,  but  only  interlaced  touches  of  pure  tints  on  the  pa¬ 
per,  will  attain  the  required  effect.  The  indefinable  primrose 
color,  for  instance,  of  the  glazed  porringer  in  the  foreground 
of  No.  174  could  not  possibly  have  been  given  with  a  mixed 
tint.  The  breaking  of  gray  through  gold  by  which  it  has 
been  reached  is  one  of  the  prettiest  pieces  of  work  to  be  seen 
in  these  rooms  ;  it  exhibits  the  utmost  skill  of  the  artist,  and 
is  an  adequate  justification  of  his  usual  manner. 

Among  the  earliest  statements  of  principles  of  art  made  in 
the  “Stones  of  Venice,”  one  of  those  chiefly  fortunate  in  obtain¬ 
ing  credit  with  my  readers  was  the  course  of  argument  urg¬ 
ing  frankness  in  the  confession  of  the  special  means  by  which 
any  artistic  result  has  been  obtained,  and  of  the  limitations 
which  these  appointed  instruments,  and  the  laws  proper  to 
the  use  of  them,  set  to  its  scope.  Thus  the  threads  in  tapes¬ 
try,  the  tesserae  in  mosaic,  the  joints  of  the  stones  in  masonry, 
and  the  movements  of  the  pencil  in  painting,  are  shown  with¬ 
out  hesitation  by  the  greatest  masters  in  those  arts,  and  often 
enforced  and  accented  by  the  most  ingenious  ;  while  endeavors 
to  conceal  them — as  to  make  needlework  look  like  pencilling, 
or  efface,  in  painting,  the  rugged  freedom  or  joyful  lightness 
of  its  handiwork  into  the  deceptive  image  of  a  natural  surface, 
are,  without  any  exception,  signs  of  declining  intelligence, 
and  benumbed  or  misguided  feelings. 

I  therefore  esteem  Hunt’s  work  all  the  more  exemplary  in 
acknowledging  without  disguise  the  restrictions  imposed  on 
the  use  of  water-color  as  a  medium  for  vigorously  realistic 
effects  :  and  I  have  placed  pieces  of  it  in  my  Oxford  school  as 
standards  of  imitative  (as  distinguished  from  decorative) 
color,  in  the  rightness  and  usefulness  of  which  I  have  every 


PREFACE . 


225 


day  more  confirmed  trust.  I  am  aware  of  no  other  pieces  of 
art,  in  modern  days,  at  once  so  sincere  and  so  accomplished  : 
only  let  it  be  noted  that  I  use  the  term  “  sincere  ”in  this  case, 
not  as  imputing  culpable  fallacy  to  pictures  of  more  imagin¬ 
ative  power,  but  only  as  implying  the  unbiassed  directness  of 
aim  at  the  realization  of  very  simple  facts,  which  is  often 
impossible  to  the  passions,  or  inconsistent  with  the  plans,  of 
greater  designers. 

In  more  cautiously  guarded  terms  of  praise,  and  with  far 
less  general  proposal  of  their  peculiar  qualities  for  imitation, 
I  have  yet,  both  in  my  earlier  books,  and  in  recent  lectures  at 
Oxford,  spoken  of  the  pencil  sketches  of  Prout  with  a  rever¬ 
ence  and  enthusiasm  which  it  is  my  chief  personal  object  in 
the  present  exhibition  to  justify,  or  at  least  to  explain  ;  so 
that  future  readers  may  not  be  offended,  as  I  have  known 
some  former  ones  to  be,  by  expressions  which  seemed  to  them 
incompatible  with  the  general  tenor  of  my  teaching. 

It  is  quite  true  that  my  feelings  toward  this  painter  are 
much  founded  on,  or  at  least  colored  by,  early  associations  ; 
but  I  have  never  found  the  memories  of  my  childhood  beguile 
me  into  any  undue  admiration  of  the  architecture  in  Billiter 
Street  or  Brunswick  Square  ;  and  I  believe  the  characters 
which  first  delighted  me  in  the  drawings  of  this — in  his  path 
unrivalled — artist,  deserve  the  best  attention  and  illustration 
of  which  in  my  advanced  years  I  am  capable. 

The  little  drawing,  No.  95,  bought,  I  believe,  by  my  grand¬ 
father,  hung  in  the  corner  of  our  little  dining  parlor  at  Herne 
Hill  as  early  as  I  can  remember  ;  and  had  a  most  fateful  and 
continual  power  over  my  childish  mind.  Men  are  made  what 
they  finally  become,  only  by  the  external  accidents  which  are 
in  harmony  with  their  inner  nature.  I  was  not  made  a  stu¬ 
dent  of  Gothic  merely  because  this  little  drawing  of  Prout’s 
was  the  first  I  knew  ;  but  the  hereditary  love  of  antiquity, 
and  thirst  for  country  life,  which  "were  as  natural  to  me  as  a 
little  jackdaw’s  taste  for  steeples,  or  dabchick’s  for  reeds, 
were  directed  and  tempered  in  a  very  definite  way  by  the 
qualities  of  this  single  and  simple  drawing. 

In  the  first  place,  it  taught  me  generally  to  like  ruggedness  ; 


226 


PREFACE. 


and  the  conditions  of  joint  in  moulding,  and  fitting  of  stones 
in  walls  which  were  most  weather-worn,  and  like  the  gray 
dykes  of  a  Cumberland  hill-side.  This  predilection — passion, 
I  might  more  truly  call  it — holds  me  yet  so  strongly,  that  I 
can  never  quite  justly  conceive  the  satisfaction  of  the  original 
builders,  even  of  the  most  delicate  edifice,  in  seeing  its  come¬ 
ly  stones  well  set  together.  Giotto’s  tower,  and  the  subtly 
Cyclopean  walls  of  early  Yerona,  have  indeed  chastised  the 
prejudice  out  of  me,  so  far  as  regards  work  in  marble  enriched 
with  mosaic  and  pure  sculpture  ;  but  I  had  almost  rather  see 
Furness  or  Fountains  Abbey  strewed  in  grass-grown  heaps 
by  their  brooksides,  than  in  the  first  glow  and  close  setting 
of  their  fresh-hewn  sandstone.  Whatever  is  rationally  justi¬ 
fiable  in  this  feeling,  so  far  as  it  is  dependent  on  just  rever¬ 
ence  for  the  signs  of  antiquity,  and  may  therefore  be  trusted 
to,  as  existing  generally  in  the  minds  of  persons  of  thought¬ 
ful  temperament,  was  enough  explained,  long  ago,  in  the  pas¬ 
sages  of  the  “Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,”  which,  the  book 
not  being  now  generally  accessible,  I  reprint  in  Appendix  I.  ; 
but  openness  of  joints  and  roughness  of  masonry  are  not 
exclusively  signs  of  age  or  decay  in  buildings :  and  I  did  not  at 
that  time  enough  insist  on  the  propriety,  and  even  the  grace, 
of  such  forms  of  literal  “  rustication  ”  *  as  are  compelled 
by  coarseness  of  materials,  and  plainness  of  builders,  when 
proper  regard  is  had  to  economy,  and  just  honor  rendered  to 
provincial  custom  and  local  handicraft.  These  are  now  so 
little  considered  that  the  chief  difficulties  I  have  had  in  the 
minute  architectural  efforts  possible  at  Brantwood  have  been 
to  persuade  my  Coniston  builder  into  satisfaction  with  Conis- 
ton  slate  ;  and  retention  of  Coniston  manners  in  dressing — or 
rather,  leaving  undressed — its  primitively  fractured  edges.  If 
I  ever  left  him  alone  for  a  day,  some  corner  stone  was  sure  to 
be  sent  for  from  Bath  or  Portland,  and  the  ledges  I  had  left 

*  All  the  forms  of  massive  foundation,  of  which  the  aspect,  in  build¬ 
ings  of  pretension,  has  been  described  by  this  word,  took  their  origin 
from  the  palaces  in  Florence,  whose  foundations  were  laid  with  un¬ 
chiselled  blocks  of  the  gray  gritstone  of  Fesole,  and  looked  like  a  piece 
of  its  crags. 


PREFACE. 


227 


to  invite  stonecrop  and  swallows,  trimmed  away  in  the  ad¬ 
vanced  style  of  the  railway  station  at  Carnforth. 

There  is  more,  however,  to  be  noted  in  this  little  old-fash¬ 
ioned  painting,  than  mere  delight  in  weedy  eaves  and  mortar¬ 
less  walls.  Pre-eminently  its  repose  in  such  placid  subjects  of 
thought  as  the  cottage,  and  its  neighboring  wood,  contain  for 
an  easily-pleased  observer,  without  the  least  recommendation 
of  them  by  graceful  incident,  or  plausible  story.  If  we  can  be 
content  with  sunshine  on  our  old  brown  roof,  and  the  sober 
green  of  a  commonplace  English  wood,  protected  by  a  still 
more  commonplace  tarred  paling,  and  allowing  the  fancy  there¬ 
fore  not  to  expatiate  even  so  far  as  the  hope  of  a  walk  in  it — it 
is  well ; — and  if  not, — poor  Prout  has  no  more  to  offer  us,  and 
will  not  even  concede  the  hope  that  one  of  those  diagonally- 
dressed  children  may  be  the  least  pretty,  or  provoke  us,  by  the 
gleam  of  a  ribbon,  or  quaintness  of  a  toy,  into  asking  so  much 
as  what  the  itinerant  pedler  has  in  his  basket. 

I  was  waiting  for  a  train  the  other  day  at  Dover,  and  in  an 
old-fashioned  print-shop  on  the  hill  up  to  the  Priory  station, 
saw  a  piece  of  as  old-fashioned  picture-making,  elaborately  en¬ 
graved,  and  of  curious  interest  to  me,  at  the  moment,  with 
reference  to  my  present  essay.  It  belonged  to  the  dull  British 
school  which  was  founded  on  conscientious  following  of  the 
miniature  methods  and  crowded  incidents  of  Dutch  painting  ; 
and  always  dutifully  proposed  to  give  the  spectator  as  much 
entertainment  as  could  be  collected  into  the  given  space  of  can¬ 
vas.  There  was  an  ideal  village  street  to  begin  with,  the  first 
cottage  gable  at  the  corner  having  more  painting  (and  very 
good  and  pretty  painting)  spent  on  the  mere  thatch  of  it,  than 
there  is  in  the  entire  Prout  drawing  under  our  notice.  Be¬ 
yond  the  laborious  gable  came  some  delicately-branched  trees  ; 
and  then  the  village  street,  in  and  out,  half-a-mile  long,  with 
shops,  and  signs,  and  what  not ;  and  then  the  orthodox  church- 
steeple,  and  then  more  trees,  and  then  a  sky  with  rolling  white 
clouds  after  Wouvermans  ; — but  all  this,  though  the  collected 
quantity  of  it  would  have  made  half-a-dozen  country  villages, 
if  well  pulled  out,  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  subject. 
Gable,  street,  church,  rookery,  and  sky,  were  all,  in  the  paint- 


228 


PREFACE. 


er’s  mind,  too  thin  and  spare  entertainment.  So  out  of  the 
gable-window  looked  a  frightened  old  woman — out  of  the  cot¬ 
tage-door  rushed  an  angry  old  man  ;  over  the  garden  palings 
tumbled  two  evil-minded  boys, — after  the  evil-minded  boys 
rushed  an  indignantly-minded  dog  ;  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
foreground,  cynosure  of  the  composition,  were,  a  couple  of 
fighting-cocks, — one  fallen,  the  other  crowing  for  conquest ; — 
highly  finished,  both,  from  wattle  to  spur.  And  the  absolute 
pictorial  value  of  the  whole, — church  and  sky — village  and 
startled  inhabitants — vagabond  boys — vindictive  dog — and 
victorious  bird  (the  title  of  the  picture  being  “  The  Moment  of 
Victory  ”) — the  intrinsic  value  of  the  whole,  I  say,  being — not 
the  twentieth  part  of  a  Hunt’s  five-minute  sketch  of  one  cock’s 
feather. 

And  yet  it  was  all  prettily  painted, — as  I  said  ;  and  possessed 
every  conceivable  quality  that  can  be  taught  in  a  school,  or 
bought  for  money  :  and  the  artist  who  did  it  had  probably  in 
private  life,  a  fair  average  quantity  of  sense  and  feeling,  but 
had  left  both  out  of  his  picture,  in  order  to  imitate  what  he 
had  been  taught  was  fine,  and  produce  what  he  expected  would 
pay. 

Take  another  instance,  more  curious,  and  nearer  to  matters 
in  hand.  The  little  photograph,  No.  117,  was  made  in  1858 
(by  my  own  setting  of  the  camera),  in  the  court-yard  of  one  of 
the  prettiest  yet  remaining  fragments  of  15th  century  domes¬ 
tic  buildings  in  Abbeville.  The  natural  vine-leaves  consent  in 
grace  and  glow  with  the  life  of  the  old  wood  carving ;  and 
though  the  modern  white  porcelain  image  ill  replaces  the  re¬ 
volution-deposed  Madonna,  and  only  pedestals  of  saints,  and 
canopies,  are  left  on  the  propping  beams  of  the  gateway  ;  and 
though  the  cask,  and  cooper’s  tools,  and  gardener’s  spade  and 
ladder  are  little  in  accord  with  what  was  once  stately  in  the 
gate,  and  graceful  in  the  winding  stair, — the  declining  shadows 
of  the  past  mingle  with  the  hardship  of  the  present  day  in  no 
unkindly  sadness  ;  and  the  little  angle  of  courtyard,  if  tenderly 
painted  in  the  depression  of  its  fate,  has  enough  still  to  occupy 
as  much  of  our  best  thought  as  may  be  modestly  claimed  for 
his  picture  by  any  master  not  of  the  highest  order. 


PREFACE. 


229 


But  these  motives  of  wise  and  gentle  feeling  would  not  ap¬ 
peal  to  the  public  mind  in  competitive  exhibition.  Such  ef¬ 
forts  as  are  made  by  our  own  landscapists  to  keep  record  of 
any  fast  vanishing  scenes  of  the  kind,  are  scarcely  with  good¬ 
will  accepted  even  in  our  minor  art  galleries  :  and  leave  to  share 
in  the  lustre  of  the  Parisian  “  Salon  de  1873  ”  could  only  be 
hoped  for  by  the  author  of  the  composition  from  which  the 
photograph,  No.  118,  is  taken,  on  condition  of  his  giving 
pungency  to  the  feeble  savor  of  architectural  study  by  a  con¬ 
diment  of  love,  assassination,  and  despair. 

It  will  not,  I  trust,  be  supposed  that  in  anything  I  have  said, 
or  may  presently  further  say,  I  have  the  smallest  intention  of 
diminishing  the  praise  of  nobly  dramatic  or  pathetic  pictures. 
The  best  years  of  my  life  have  been  spent  in  the  endeavor  to 
illustrate  the  neglected  greatest  of  these,  in  Venice,  Milan,  and 
Rome  :  while  my  last  and  most  deliberate  writings  have  lost 
much  of  their  influence  with  the  public  by  disagreeably  insist¬ 
ing  that  the  duty  of  a  great  painter  was  rather  to  improve 
them,  than  amuse.  But  it  remains  always  a  sure  elementary 
principle  that  interest  in  the  story  of  pictures  does  not  in  the 
least  signify  a  relative  interest  in  the  art  of  painting,  or  in  the 
continual  beauty  and  calm  virtue  of  nature  :  and  that  the 
wholesomest  manner  in  which  the  intelligence  of  young  people 
can  be  developed  (I  may  say,  even,  the  intelligence  of  modest 
old  people  cultivated),  in  matters  of  this  kind,  is  by  induc¬ 
ing  them  accurately  to  understand  what  painting  is  as  mere 
painting,  and  music  as  mere  music,  before  they  are  led  into 
further  question  of  the  uses  of  either,  in  policy,  morals,  or 
religion. 

And  I  cannot  but  recollect  with  feelings  of  considerable  re¬ 
freshment,  in  these  days  of  the  deep,  the  lofty,  and  the  mys¬ 
terious,  what  a  simple  company  of  connoisseurs  we  were,  who 
j  crowded  into  happy  meeting,  on  the  first  Mondays  in  Mays  of 
long  ago,  in  the  bright  large  room  of  the  old  Water-color 
Society;  and  discussed,  with  holiday  gayety,  the  unimposing 
merits  of  the  favorites,  from  whose  pencils  we  knew  precisely 
what  to  expect,  and  by  whom  we  were  never  either  disap¬ 
pointed  or  surprised.  Copley  Fielding  used  to  paint  fishing- 


I 


230 


PREFACE. 


boats  for  us,  in  a  fresh  breeze,  “  Off  Dover,”  “  Off  Ramsgate,” 
“  Off  the  Needles,” — off  everywhere  on  the  south  coast  where 
anybody  had  been  last  autumn  ;  but  we  were  always  kept  pleas¬ 
antly  in  sight  of  land,  and  never  saw  so  much  as  a  gun  fired  in 
distress.  Mr.  Robson  would  occasionally  paint  a  Bard,  on  a 
heathery  crag  in  Wales  ;  or — it  might  be — a  Lady  of  the  Lake 
on  a  similar  piece  of  Scottish  foreground, — “  Benvenue  in  the 
distance.”  A  little  fighting,  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  First, 
was  permitted  to  Mr.  Cattermole  ;  and  Mr.  Cristall  would  some¬ 
times  invite  virtuous  sympathy  to  attend  the  meeting  of  two 
lovers  at  a  Wishing  gate  or  a  Holy  well.  But  the  furthest 
flights  even  of  these  poetical  members  of  the  Society  were 
seldom  beyond  the  confines  of  the  British  Islands  ;  the  vague 
dominions  of  the  air,  and  vasty  ones  of  the  deep,  were  held  to 
be  practically  unvoyageable  by  our  un-Dsedal  pinions,  and  on 
the  safe  level  of  our  native  soil,  the  sturdy  statistics  of  Mr.  De 
Wint,  and  blunt  pastorals  of  Mr.  Cox,  restrained  within  the 
limits  of  probability  and  sobriety,  alike  the  fancy  of  the  idle, 
and  the  ambition  of  the  vain. 

It  became,  however,  by  common  and  tacit  consent,  Mr. 
Prout’s  privilege,  and  it  remained  his  privilege  exclusively,  to 
introduce  foreign  elements  of  romance  and  amazement  into 
this — perhaps  slightly  fenny — atmosphere,  of  English  common 
sense.  In  contrast  with  our  Midland  locks  and  barges,  his 
“  On  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice,”  was  an  Arabian  enchantment ; 
among  the  mildly  elegiac  country  churchyards  of  Llangollen 
or  Stoke  Pogis,  his  “Sepulchral  Monuments  at  Verona ’’were 
Shakespearian  tragedy  ;  and  to  us  who  had  just  come  into  the 
room  out  of  Finsbury  or  Mincing  Lane,  his  “  Street  in  Nurem- 
burg  ”  was  a  German  fairy  tale.  But  we  none  of  us  recognized, 
then  (and  I  know  not  how  far  any  of  us  recognize  yet),  that 
these  feelings  of  ours  were  dependent  on  the  mediation  of  a 
genius  as  earnest  as  it  was  humble,  doing  work  not  in  its  es¬ 
sence  romantic  at  all ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  the  only  quite  use¬ 
ful,  faithful,  and  evermore  serviceable  work  that  the  Society— 
by  hand  of  any  of  its  members — had  ever  done,  or  could  ever, 
in  that  phase  of  its  existence,  do  :  containing,  moreover,  a 
statement  of  certain  social  facts  only  to  be  gathered,  and  image 


PREFACE. 


231 


of  certain  pathetic  beauties  only  to  be  seen,  at  that  particular 
moment  in  the  history  of  (what  we  are  pleased  to  call)  civiliza¬ 
tion. 

“  As  earnest,”  I  repeat, — “  as  it  was  humble.”  The  drawings 
actually  shown  on  the  Exhibition  walls  gave  no  sufficient  clue 
to  Prout’s  real  character,  and  no  intimation  whatever  of  his 
pauseless  industry.  He  differed,  in  these  unguessed  methods 
of  toil,  wholly  from  the  other  members  of  the  Society.  De 
Wint’s  morning  and  afternoon  sketches  from  nature,  with  a 
few  solidifying  touches,  were  at  once  ready  for  their  frames. 
Fielding’s  misty  downs  and  dancing  seas  were  softened  into 
their  distances  of  azure,  and  swept  into  their  hollows  of  foam, 
at  his  ease,  in  his  study,  with  conventional  ability,  and 
lightly  burdened  memory.  Hunt’s  models  lay  on  the  little 
table  at  his  side  all  day  ;  or  stood  as  long  as  he  liked  by  the 
barn-door,  fora  penny.  But  Prout’s  had  to  be  far  sought,  and 
with  difficulty  detailed  and  secured  :  the  figures  gliding  on  the 
causeway  or  mingling  in  the  market-place,  stayed  not  his  leis¬ 
ure  ;  and  his  drawings  prepared  for  the  Water-color  room 
i  were  usually  no  more  than  mechanical  abstracts,  made  abso¬ 
lutely  for  support  of  his  household,  from  the  really  vivid 
sketches  which,  with  the  whole  instinct  and  joy  of  his  nature, 
he  made  all  through  the  cities  of  ancient  Christendom,  with¬ 
out  an  instant  of  flagging  energy,  and  without  a  thought  of 
money  payment.  They  became  to  him  afterward  a  precious 
!  library,  of  which  he  never  parted  with  a  single  volume  as  long 
as  he  lived.  But  it  was  the  necessary  consequence  of  the  devo¬ 
tion  of  his  main  strength  to  the  obtaining  of  these  studies,  that 
at  his  death  they  remained  a  principal  part  of  the  provision 
left  for  his  family,  and  were  therefore  necessarily  scattered. 
I  cannot  conceive  any  object  more  directly  tending  to  the 
best  interests  of  our  students,  both  in  art  and  history,  than 
the  reassembling  a  chosen  series  of  them  for  the  nation,  as 
opportunity  may  be  given. 

Let  me,  however,  before  entering  on  any  special  notice  of 
those  which  Mr.  Huish  has  been  able  at  this  time  (and  I  my¬ 
self,  by  the  good  help  of  the  painter’s  son,  Mr.  Gillespie  Front), 
to  obtain  for  exhibition,  state  in  all  clearness  the  terms  under 


i 


232 


PREFACE. 


which  they  should  he  judged,  and  may  be  enjoyed.  For  just 
as  we  ought  not  to  match  a  wood-block  of  Bewick’s  against  a 
fresco  by  Correggio,  we  must  not  compare  a  pencil  outline  of 
Prout’s  with  any  such  ideals  of  finished  street  effect  as  Flem¬ 
ish  painting  once  produced.  Prout  is  not  a  colorist,  nor,  in 
any  extended  or  complete  sense  of  the  word,  a  painter.  He 
is  essentially  a  draughtsman  with  the  lead-pencil,  as  Purer 
was  essentially  a  draughtsman  with  the  burin,  and  Bewick  on 
the  wood-block.  And  the  chief  art-virtue  of  the  pieces  here 
exhibited  is  the  intellectual  abstraction  which  represents 
many  features  of  things  with  few  lines. 

Take  the  little  view  in  Amiens,  No.  7,  showing  the  west 
front  of  the  cathedral  in  the  distance.  That  front  is  enriched 
with  complex  ranks  of  arcade  and  pinnacle,  which  it  would 
take  days  to  outline  perfectly,  and  which,  seen  at  the  distance 
assumed  in  this  drawing,  gather  into  a  mystery  which  no 
fineness  of  hand  could  imitatively  follow.  But  all  this  has 
been  abstracted  into  a  few  steady  lines,  with  an  intelligence 
of  choice  and  precision  of  notation  which  build  the  cathedral 
as  if  it  stood  there,  and  in  such  accurate  likeness  that  it  could 
be  recognized  at  a  glance  from  every  other  mass  of  Gothic  in 
Europe. 

That  drawing  dependent  on  abstraction  of  this  kind,  in 
which  forms  are  expressed  rather  as  a  mineralogist  would 
draw  a  crystal  than  with  aoy  investing  mystery  of  shade  or 
effect,  cannot  be  carried  beyond  the  point  assigned,  nor  con¬ 
vey  any  sense  of  extreme  beauty  or  majesty,  when  these  really 
exist  in  its  subject,  must  be  conceded  at  once,  and  in  full. 
But  there  is  a  great  deal  of  scenery  in  this  Europe  of  ours, 
not  lovely  ;  and  a  great  deal  of  habitation  in  this  Europe 
of  ours  not  sublime,  yet  both  extremely  worthy  of  being 
recorded  in  a  briefly  crystalline  manner.  And  with  scenes 
only,  and  dwellings  only,  of  this  ruder  nature,  Prout  is  con* 
cerned. 

Take  for  instance  the  general  facts  respecting  the  valley  of 
the  Somme,  collected  in  this  little  sketch  of  Amiens.  That 
river,  and  the  Oise,  with  other  neighboring  minor  streams, 
flow  through  a  chalk  district  intersected  by  very  ancient  val- 


PREFACE. 


233 


leys,  filled  mostly  witli  peat  up  to  sea-level,  but  carrying  off 
a  large  portion  of  the  rainfall  over  the  whole  surface  of  the 
upper  plains,  which,  open  and  arable,  retain  scarcely  any  mois¬ 
ture  in  morasses,  pools,  or  deep  grass.  The  rivers,  therefore, 
though  with  little  fall,  run  always  fast  and  brimful,  divided 
into  many  serviceable  branches  and  runlets  ;  while  the  older 
villages  and  cities  on  their  banks  are  built  of  timber  and  brick, 
or  in  the  poorer  cottages,  timber  and  clay  ;  but  their  churches 
of  an  adhesive  and  durable  chalk  rock,  yielding  itself  with  the 
utmost  ease  to  dexterities  of  deep  incision,  and  relieving,  at 
first  with  lace-like  whiteness,  and  always  with  a  pleasant  pearly 
gray,  the  shadows  so  obtained.  No  sensual  arts  or  wealthy 
insolences  have  ever  defiled  or  distorted  the  quiet  temper  of 
the  northern  French  race,  and  in  this  busy  little  water-street 
of  Amiens  (you  see  that  Prout  has  carefully  indicated  its  rapid 
current — a  navigable  and  baptismal  brook,  past  step  and  door 
— water  that  one  can  float  with  and  wash  with,  not  a  viscous 
vomit  of  black  poison,  like  an  English  river)  you  have  clearly 
pictured  to  you  a  state  of  peasant  life  assembled  in  the  fellow- 
i  ship  of  a  city,  yet  with  as  little  pride  as  if  still  in  the  glades  of 
Arden,  and  united  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  mere  neighborliness  ; 
and  the  sense  of  benediction  and  guardianship  in  the  every¬ 
where  visible  pinnacles  of  the  temple  built  by  their  Fathers, 
nor  yet  forsaken  by  their  Fathers’  God. 

All  this  can  be  enough  told  in  a  few  rightly  laid  pencil 
lines,  and  more,  it  is  needless  to  tell  of  so  lowly  provincial 
life. 

Needless,  at  least,  for  the  general  public.  For  the  closer 
student  of  architecture,  finer  drawing  may  be  needed  ;  but 
even  for  such  keener  requirement  Prout  will  not,  for  a  time, 

I  fail  us. 

Five-and-twenty  miles  down  the  Somme  lies  the  little 
!  ramparted  town  of  Abbeville  ;  rampart  only  of  the  Grand  Mo- 
narque’s  time,  but  the  walls  of  might  long  ago,  in  the  days  of 
Crecy  ;  and  few  French  provincial  bourgs  had  then  more 
numerous  or  beautiful  monasteries,  hospitals,  chapels,  and 
churches.  Of  the  central  St.  Wulfran,  never  completed,  there 
remain  only  the  colossal  nave,  the  ruined  transept  walls,  and 


234 


PREFACE. 


the  lordly  towers  and  porches  of  the  west  front.  The  drawing 
No.  5,  quite  one  of  the  best  examples  of  Prout’s  central  time 
in  the  room,  most  faithfully  represents  this  western  pile  of 
tracery  and  fretwork,  with  the  filial  richness  of  the  timber 
houses  that  once  stood  round  it. 

None  of  the  beautiful  ones  here  seen  are  now  left ;  and  one 
day,  perhaps,  even  France  herself  will  be  grateful  to  the  wan¬ 
dering  Londoner,  who  drew  them  as  they  once  were,  and 
copied,  without  quite  understanding,  every  sign  and  word  on 
them. 

And  as  one  of  the  few  remaining  true  records  of  fifteenth- 
century  France — such  as  her  vestiges  remained  after  all  the 
wreck  of  revolution  and  recoil  of  war  had  passed  over  them, 
this  pencil  drawing,  slight  as  it  seems,  may  well  take  rank  be¬ 
side  any  pen-sketch  by  Holbein  in  Augsburg,  or  Gentil  Bellini 
iu  Venice.  As  a  piece  of  composition  and  general  treatment, 
it  might  be  reasoned  on  for  days  ;  for  the  cunning  choices  of 
omission,  the  delicate  little  dexterities  of  adjustment — the 
accents  without  vulgarity,  and  reticences  without  affectation — 
the  exactly  enough  everywhere,  to  secure  an  impression  of 
reality,  and  the  instant  pause  at  the  moment  when  another 
touch  would  have  been  tiresome — are,  in  the  soberest  truth, 
more  wonderful  than  most  of  the  disciplined  compositions  of 
the  greater  masters,  for  no  scruple  checks  them  for  an  instant 
in  changing  or  introducing  what  they  chose  ;  but  Prout  gives 
literal,  and  all  but  servile,  portrait,  only  managing  somehow 
to  get  the  chequers  of  woodwork  to  carry  down  the  richness  of 
the  towers  into  the  houses  ;  then  to  get  the  broad  white  wall 
of  the  nearer  houses  to  contrast  with  both,  and  then  sets  the 
transept  turret  to  peep  over  the  roof  just  enough  to  etherialize 
its  practicality,  and  the  black  figure  to  come  in  front  of  it  to 
give  lustre  to  its  whiteness  ;  and  so  on  throughout,  down  to 
the  last  and  minutest  touches : — the  incomprehensiblest  class¬ 
ical  sonata  is  not  more  artificial — the  sparklingest  painted 
window  not  more  vivid,  and  the  sharpest  photograph  not  half 
so  natural. 

In  sequence  of  this  drawing,  I  may  point  out  seven 
others  of  like  value,  equally  estimable  and  unreplaceable, 


PREFACE. 


235 


both  in  matters  of  Art,  and — I  use  the  word,  as  will  be  seen 
presently,  in  its  full  force — of  History,  namely 

No.  9.  Evreux. 

No.  10.  Strasburg. 

No.  19.  Antwerp. 

No.  47.  Domo  d’Ossola. 

No.  48.  Como. 

No.  65.  Bologna. 

No.  71.  The  Coliseum. 

I  choose  these  eight  drawings  (counting  the  Abbeville),  four 
belonging  to  North  France  and  Germany,  four  to  Italy,  of 
which  the  Northern  ones  do  indeed  utterly  represent  the 
spirit  of  the  architecture  chosen  ;  but  the  Southern  subjects 
are  much  more  restricted  in  expression,  for  Prout  was  quite 
unable  to  draw  the  buildings  of  the  highest  Italian  school : 
yet  he  has  given  the  vital  look  of  Italy  in  his  day  more  truly 
than  any  other  landscapist,  be  he  who  he  may  ;  and  not  ex¬ 
cepting  even  Turner,  for  his  ideal  is  always  distinctly  Tur- 
nerian,  and  not  the  mere  blunt  and  sorrowful  fact. 

You  might  perhaps,  and  very  easily,  think  at  first  that 
these  Prout  subjects  were  as  much  “  Proutized  ”  (Copley 
Fielding  first  used  that  word  to  me)  as  Turner’s  were  Turner- 
ized.  They  are  not  so,  by  any  manner  of  means,  or  rather, 
they  are  so  by  manner  and  means  only,  not  by  sight  or 
heart.  Turner  saw  things  as  Shelley  or  Keats  did  ;  and  with 
perfectly  comprehensive  power,  gave  all  that  such  eyes  can 
summon,  to  gild,  or  veil,  the  fatalities  of  material  truth.  But 
Prout  saw  only  what  all  the  world  sees,  what  is  substantially 
and  demonstrably  there  ;  and  drew  that  reality,  in  his  much 
arrested  and  humble  manner  indeed,  but  with  perfectly  apos¬ 
tolic  faithfulness.  He  reflected  the  scene  like  some  rough 
old  Etruscan  mirror — jagged,  broken,  blurred,  if  you  will, 
but  It,  the  thing  itself  still  ;  "while  Turner  gives  it,  and  him¬ 
self  too,  and  ever  so  much  of  fairyland  besides.  His  Flor¬ 
ence  or  Nemi  compels  me  to  think,  as  a  scholar,  or  (for  so 
much  of  one  as  may  be  in  me)  a  poet;  but  Prout’s  harbor  of 


230 


PREFACE. 


old  Como  is  utterly  and  positively  the  very  harbor  I  landed 
in  when  I  was  a  boy  of  fourteen,  after  a  day’s  rowing  from 
Cadenabbia,  and  it  makes  me  young  again,  and  hot,  and 
happy,  to  look  at  it.  And  that  Bologna !  Well,  the  tower 
does  lean  a  little  too  far  over,  certainly  ;  but  what  blessed¬ 
ness  to  be  actually  there,  and  to  think  we  shall  be  in  Venice 
to-morrow ! 

But  note  that  the  first  condition  of  all  these  really  great 
drawings  (as  indeed  for  all  kinds  of  other  good),  is  unaffected¬ 
ness.  If  ever  Prout  strains  a  nerve,  or  begins  to  think  what 
other  people  will  say  or  feel ; — nay,  if  he  ever  allows  his  own 
real  faculty  of  chiaroscuro  to  pronounce  itself  consciously,  he 
falls  into  fourth-  and  fifth-rate  work  directly  ;  and  the  entire 
force  of  him  can  be  found  only  where  it  has  been  called  into 
cheerful  exertion  by  subjects  moderately,  yet  throughout  de¬ 
lightful  to  him  ;  which  present  no  difficulties  to  be  conquered, 
no  discords  to  be  reconciled,  and  have  just  enough  of  clarion 
in  them  to  rouse  him  to  his  paces,  without  provoking  him  to 
prance  or  capriole. 

I  should  thus  rank  the  drawing  of  Como  (48)  as  quite  of 
the  first  class,  and  in  the  front  rank  of  that  class.  Unat¬ 
tractive  at  first,  its  interest  will  increase  every  moment  that 
you  stay  by  it,  and  every  little  piece  of  it  is  a  separate  pic¬ 
ture,  all  the  better  in  itself  for  its  subjection  to  the  whole. 

You  may  at  first  think  the  glassless  windows  too  black. 
But  nothing  can  be  too  black  for  an  open  window  in  a  sunny 
Italian  wall,  at  so  short  a  distance.  You  may  think  the  hills 
too  light,  but  nothing  can  be  too  light  for  olive  hills  in  mid¬ 
day  summer.  “  They  would  have  come  dark  against  the 
sky  ?  ”  Yes,  certainly  ;  but  we  don’t  pretend  to  draw  Italian 
skies — only  the  ruined  port  of  Como,  which  is  verily  here  be¬ 
fore  us — (alas  !  at  Como  no  more,  having  long  since  been  filled 
up,  levelled,  and  gravelled,  and  made  an  “  esplanade  ”  for 
modern  Italy  to  spit  over  in  its  idle  afternoons).  But  take 
the  lens  to  the  old  group  of  houses  ; — they  will  become  as  in¬ 
teresting  as  a  missal  illumination  if  you  only  look  carefully 
enough  to  see  how  Prout  varied  those  twenty-seven  black 
holes,  so  that  literally  not  one  of  them  shall  be  like  another. 


PREFACE. 


237 


The  grand  old  Comasque  builder  of  the  twelfth  century 
arches  below  (the  whole  school  of  Lombardic  masonry  being 
originally  Comasque)  varied  them  to  his  hand  enough  in 
height  and  width — but  he  invents  a  new  tiny  picture  in  chiar¬ 
oscuro  to  put  under  every  arch,  and  then  knits  all  together 
with  the  central  boats  ; — literally  knits,  for  you  see  the  mast 
of  one  of  them  catches  up  the  cross-stick — stitch  we  might 
call  it — that  the  clothes  hung  on  between  the  balconies  ;  and 
then  the  little  figures  on  the  left  catch  up  the  pillars  like 
meshes  in  basket-work,  and  then  the  white  awning  of  the 
boat  on  the  left  repeats  the  mass  of  wall,  taking  the  stiffness 
out  of  it,  while  the  reflections  of  arches,  with  the  other  fig¬ 
ures,  and  the  near  black  freights,  carry  all  the  best  of  it, 
broken  and  rippling,  to  the  bitter  shore. 

But  the  drawing  of  the  Coliseum  at  Rome,  No.  71,  has  still 
higher  claim  to  our  consideration  ;  in  it  were  reserved,  and 
in  all  points,  rarer  powers  of  expressing  magnitude  and  soli¬ 
tude.  It  is  so  majestic  in  manner  that  it  would  quite  have 
borne  being  set  beside  the  photograph  of  Turner’s  drawing 
at  Farnley  ;  had  it  been  fair  to  match  mere  outline  against  a 
finished  composition.  For  Prout  was,  and  he  remains,  the 
only  one  of  our  artists  who  entirely  shared  Turner’s  sense  of 
magnitude,  as  the  sign  of  past  human  effort,  or  of  natural 
force ;  and  I  must  be  so  far  tedious  as  to  explain  this  meta¬ 
physical  point  at  some  length.  Of  all  forms  of  artistic  sus¬ 
ceptibility,  reverent  perception  of  true  *  magnitude  is  the 
rarest.  No  general  conclusion  has  become  more  clear  to 
my  experience  than  this — strange  as  it  may  seem  at  first 
statement,  that  a  painter’s  mind,  typically ,  recognizes  no 
charm  in  physical  vastness  :  and  will,  if  it  must  choose  be¬ 
tween  two  evils,  by  preference  work  on  a  reduced,  rather 
than  an  enlarged,  scale ;  and  for  subject,  paint  miniature 
rather  than  mass.  Human  form  is  always  given  by  the  great 


*  Reckless  accumulation  of  false  magnitude — as  by  John  Martin,  is 
merely  a  vulgar  weakness  of  brain,  allied  to  nightmare  ;  so  also  the 
colossal  works  of  decadent  states  in  sculpture  and  architecture,  which 
are  always  insolent ;  not  reverent 


238 


PREFACE. 


masters  either  of  the  natural  size,  or  somewhat  less  (unless 
under  fixed  conditions  of  distance  which  require  perspective 
enlargement), — and  no  sort  or  shadow  of  pleasure  is  ever  taken 
by  the  strongest  designers  in  bulk  of  matter.  Veronese  never 
paints  shafts  of  pillars  more  than  two  feet  in  diameter,  or 
thereabouts,  and  only  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  in  height. 
Titian’s  beech-trunks  in  the  Peter  Martyr  were  not  a  foot 
across  at  the  thickest,  while  his  mountains  are  merely  blue 
spaces  of  graceful  shape,  and  are  never  accurately  enough 
drawn  to  give  even  a  suggestion  of  scale.  And  in  the  entire 
range  of  Venetian  marine  painting  there  is  not  one  large 
wave. 

Among  our  own  recent  landscape  painters,  while  occasion¬ 
ally  great  feeling  is  shown  for  space,  or  mystery,  there  is 
none  for  essential  magnitude.  Stanfield  was  just  as  happy 
in  drawing  the  East  cliff  at  Hastings  as  the  Rock  of  Ischia  ; 
and  painted  the  little  sandy  jut  of  crag  far  better  than  the 
coned  volcano.  Fielding  asked  for  no  more  stupendous  sum¬ 
mits  than  those  of  Saddleback  or  Wrynose — and  never  at¬ 
tempted  the  grandeur  even  of  Yorkshire  scars,  finding  their 
articulated  geology  troublesome.  Sometimes  David  Roberts 
made  a  praiseworthy  effort  to  explain  the  size  of  a  pillar  at 
Thebes,  or  a  tower  in  the  Alhambra ;  but  only  in  cases  where 
the  character  of  largeness  had  been  forced  upon  his  attention, 
as  the  quality  to  be  observed  by  himself,  and  recommended 
to  the  observation  of  others.  He  never  felt,  or  would  have 
tried  to  make  anyone  else  feel — the  weight  of  an  ordinary 
boulder  stone,  or  the  hollow  of  an  old  chestnut  stem,  or  the 
height  of  a  gathering  thunder-cloud.  In  the  real  apprehen¬ 
sion  of  measurable  magnitude,  magnitude  in  things  clearly 
seen — stones,  trees,  clouds,  or  towers — Turner  and  Prout 
stand — they  two — absolutely  side  by  side — otherwise  com¬ 
panionless. 

Measurable  magnitude,  observe  : — and  therefore  wonderful. 
If  you  can’t  see  the  difference  between  the  domes  of  the  Na¬ 
tional  Gallery  and  of  St.  Paul’s  : — much  more  if  you  can’t  see 
the  difference  between  Shanklin  Chine  and  the  Via  Mala  (and 
most  people  can’t !) — you  will  never  care  either  for  Turner  or 


PREFACE. 


239 


Prout nor  can  you  care  rightly  for  them  unless  you  have  an 
intellectual  pleasure  in  construction,  and  know  and  feel  that  it 
is  more  difficult  to  build  a  tower  securely  four  hundred  feet 
high,  than  forty — and  that  the  pillar  of  cloud  above  the  crater 
of  Etna,  standing  two  thousand  feet  forth  from  the  lips  of  it, 
means  a  natural  force  greater  than  the  puff  of  a  railway  boiler. 
The  quiet  and  calm  feeling  of  reverence  for  this  kind  of  power, 
and  the  accurate  habit  of  rendering  it  (see  notes  on  the 
Sketches  of  Strasburg,  No.  10,  and  Drachenfels,  No.  28) — 
are  always  connected,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  with  some 
parallel  justice  in  the  estimate  of  spiritual  order  and  power 
in  human  life  and  its  laws  ; — nor  is  there  any  faculty  of  my 
own  mind  —  among  those  to  which  I  owe  whatever  useful 
results  it  may  have  reached — of  which  I  am  so  gratefully 
conscious. 

There  is  one  further  point — and  if  my  preface  has  hitherto 
been  too  garrulous,  it  must  be  grave  in  notice  of  this  at  the 
close, — in  which  Turner,  Bewick,  Hunt,  and  Prout,  all  four 
agree — that  they  can  draw  the  poor,  but  not  the  rich.  They 
acknowledge  with  affection,  whether  for  principal  or  accessory 
subjects  of  their  art,  the  British  farmer,  the  British  sailor,*  the 
British  marketwoman,  and  the  British  workman.  They  agree 
unanimously  in  ignoring  the  British  gentleman.  Let  the 
British  gentleman  lay  it  to  heart,  and  ask  himself  why. 

The  general  answer  is  long,  and  manifold.  But,  with  re¬ 
spect  to  the  separate  work  of  Prout,  there  is  a  very  precious 


*  Including,  of  course,  the  British  soldier  ;  but  for  Turner,  a  ship  of  the 
line  was  pictorially  better  material  than  a  field  battery ;  else  he  would 
just  as  gladly  have  painted  Albuera  as  Trafalgar.  I  am  intensely  anx¬ 
ious,  by  the  way,  to  find  out  where  a  small  picture  of  his  greatest  time 
may  now  be  dwelling, — a  stranded  English  frigate  engaging  the  batteries 
on  the  French  coast  at  sunset  (she  got  off  at  the  flood-tide  in  the  morn¬ 
ing)  ;  I  want  to  get  it,  if  possible,  for  the  St.  George’s  Museum  at  Sheffield. 
For  the  rest,  I  think  the  British  gentleman  may  partly  see  his  way  to 
the  answer  of  the  above  question  if  he  will  faithfully  consider  with  him¬ 
self  how  it  comes  to  pass  that,  always  fearless  in  the  field,  he  is  cow¬ 
ardly  in  the  House, — and  always  generous  in  the  field, — is  yet  meanly 
cunning,  and— too  often— malignant,  in  the  House. 


240 


PREFACE. 


piece  of  instruction  in  it,  respecting  national  prosperity  and 
policy,  which  may  be  gathered  with  a  few  glances. 

You  see  how  all  his  best  pieces  depend  on  figures  either 
crowded  in  market-places,  or  pausing  (lounging,  it  may  be) 
in  quiet  streets — you  will  not  find  in  the  entire  series  of 
subjects  here  assembled  from  his  hand — a  single  figure  in 
a  hurry  !  He  ignores,  you  see — not  only  the  British  Gentle¬ 
man  ; — but  every  necessary  condition,  nowadays,  of  British 
Business ! 

Look  again,  and  see  if  you  can  find  a  single  figure  exerting 
all  its  strength.  A  couple  of  men  rolling  a  single  cask,  per¬ 
haps  ;  here  and  there  a  woman  with  rather  a  large  bundle  on 
her  head — any  more  athletic  display  than  these,  you  seek  in 
vain. 

He  ignores  even  the  British  Boat-race — and  British  muscu¬ 
lar  divinity,  and  British  Muscular  Art. 

His  figures  are  all  as  quiet  as  the  Cathedral  of  Chartres ! 
“Because  he  could  not  make  them  move  ” — think  you  ?  Nay, 
not  so.  Some  of  them — (that  figure  on  the  sands  in  the  Calais, 
for  instance),  you  can  scarcely  think  are  standing  still — but 
they  all  move  quietly.  The  real  reason  is  that  he  understood 
— and  we  do  not — the  meaning  of  the  word — “quiet.” 

He  understood  it,  personally,  and  for  himself  :  practically 
and  for  others.  Take  this  one  fact — of  his  quiet  dealings  with 
men,  and  think  over  it.  In  his  early  days  he  had  established 
a  useful  and  steady  connection  with  the  country  dealers, — that 
is  to  say,  with  the  leading  printsellers  in  the  county  towns 
and  principal  watering-places.  He  supplied  them  with  pretty 
drawings  of  understood  size  and  price,  which  were  nearly  al¬ 
ways  in  tranquil  demand  by  the  better  class  of  customers. 
The  understood  size  was  about  10  inches  by  14  or  15,  and  the 
fixed  price,  six  guineas.  The  dealer  charged  from  seven  to 
ten,  according  to  the  pleasantness  of  the  drawing.  I  bought 
the  “Venice,”  for  instance,  No.  55,  from  Mr.  Hewitt,  of  Leam¬ 
ington,  for  eight  guineas. 

The  modern  fashionable  interest  in — what  we  suppose  to  be 
art — had  just  begun  to  show  itself  a  few  years  before  Prout’s 
death  ;  and  he  was  frequently  advised  to  raise  his  prices.  But 


PREFACE. 


241 


he  never  raised  them  a  shilling  to  his  old  customers.*  They 
were  supplied  with  all  the  drawings  they  wanted,  at  six  guineas 
each,  to  the  end.  A  very  peaceful  method  of  dealing,  and 
under  the  true  ancient  laws  ordained  by  Athena  of  the  Agora, 
and  St.  James  of  the  Rialto. 

Athena,  observe,  of  the  Agora,  or  Market  Place.  And  St. 
James  of  the  Deep  Stream,  or  Market  River.  The  Angels  of 
Honest  Sale  and  Honest  Porterage  ;  such  honest  porterage 
being  the  true  grandeur  of  the  Grand  Canal,  and  of  all  other 
canals,  rivers,  sounds,  and  seas  that  ever  moved  in  wavering 
morris  under  the  night.  And  the  eternally  electric  light  of 
the  embankment  of  that  Rialto  stream  was  shed  upon  it  by 
the  Cross — know  you  that  for  certain,  you  dwellers  by  high- 
embanked  and  steamer-burdened  Thames. 

And  learn  from  your  poor  wandering  painter  this  lesson — 
for  sum  of  the  best  he  had  to  give  you  (it  is  the  Alpha  of  the 
Laws  of  true  human  life) — that  no  city  is  prosperous  in  the 
sight  of  heaven,  unless  the  peasant  sells  in  its  market — adding 
this  lesson  of  Gentile  Bellini’s  for  the  Omega,  that  no  city  is 
ever  righteous  in  the  Sight  of  Heaven,  unless  the  noble  walks 
in  its  street. 


*  Nor  greatly  to  his  new  ones.  The  drawings  made  for  the  Water- 
color  room  were  usually  more  elaborate,  and,  justly,  a  little  higher  in 
price  ;  but  my  father  bought  the  Lisieux,  No.  13,  off  its  walls,  for  eigh¬ 
teen  guineas. 


16 


tt  \  ‘ 


CATALOGUE. 


I.-PEOUT. 


The  reader  will  find,  ending  this  pamphlet,  a  continuous 
index  to  the  whole  collection  of  drawings,  with  references  to  the 
pages  in  which  special  notice  has  been  taken  of  them.  So  that 
in  this  descriptive  text,  I  allow  myself  to  pause  in  explanatory, 
or  wander  in  discursive,  statement,  just  as  may  seem  to  me 
most  helpful  to  the  student,  or  most  likely  to  interest  the 
general  visitor. 

I  begin  with  the  series  of  pencil  drawings  by  Prout,  which 
were  my  principal  object  in  promoting  this  exhibition.  Of 
these  I  have  chosen  seventy,  all  of  high  quality,  and  arranged 
so  as  to  illustrate  the  outgoing  course  of  an  old-fashioned 
Continental  tour,  beginning  at  Calais,  and  ending  at  Rome. 
Following  the  order  of  these  with  attention,  an  intellectual 
observer  may  learn  many  things — not  to  his  hurt. 

Their  dates,  it  will  be  noticed,  are  never  given  by  the  artist 
himself — except  in  the  day  ;  never  the  year — nor  is  there  any¬ 
thing  in  the  progress  of  Prout’s  skill,  or  in  his  changes  of 
manner,  the  account  of  which  need  detain  us  long.  From 
earliest  boyhood  to  the  day  of  his  death,  he  drew  firmly,  and 
never  scrabbled  or  blurred.  Not  a  single  line  or  dot  is 
ever  laid  without  positive  intention,*  and  the  care  needful  to 
fulfil  that  intention.  This  is  already  a  consummate  virtue. 
But  the  magnificent  certainty  and  ease,  united,  which  it  en¬ 
abled  him  to  obtain,  are  only  seen  to  the  full  in  drawings  of 

H —  - — — - - - 

*  See  tlie  exception  proving  tlierule,  in  a  single  line,  in  No.  12,  there 
noted. 


244 


NOTES  ON  PEOUT. 


his  middle  time.  Not  in  decrepitude,  but  in  mistaken  effort, 
for  which,  to  my  sorrow,  I  was  partly  mj^self  answerable,  he 
endeavored  in  later  journeys  to  make  his  sketches  more 
accurate  in  detail  of  tracery  and  sculpture  ;  and  they  lost  in 
feeling  what  they  gained  in  technical  exactness  and  elabora¬ 
tion.  Of  these  later  drawings  only  three  are  included  in  this 
series,  4,  8,  and  17  ;  their  peculiar  character  will,  however,  be 
at  once  discernible. 

His  incipient  work  was  distinguished  by  two  specialties — 
the  use  of  a  gray  washed  tint  with  the  pencil,  a  practice  en¬ 
tirely  abandoned  in  his  great  time  (though  he  will  always 
make  notes  of  color  frankly)  ;  and  the  insisting  on  minor 
pieces  of  broken  texture,  in  small  stones,  bricks,  grass,  or  any 
little  picturesque  incidents,  with  loss  of  largeness  and  repose. 
The  little  study  of  the  apse  of  Worms  Cathedral  (32),  a  most 
careful  early  drawing,  shows  these  faults  characteristically  ; 
the  Prague  (23)  is  as  definite  an  example  of  his  great  central 
manner,  and  even  Turner’s  outline  is  not  more  faultless, 
though  more  complete.  For  the  rest,  Turner  himself  shared 
in  the  earlier  weakness  of  more  sharply  dotted  and  sprinkled 
black  touches,  and  practised,  cotemporaneously,  the  wash  of 
gray  tint  with  the  pencil.  The  chief  use  of  the  method  to 
the  young  student  is  in  its  compelling  him  to  divide  his 
masses  clearly  ;  and  I  used  it  much  myself  in  early  sketches, 
such  as  that  of  the  Aventine,  No.  104a,  for  mere  cleanliness 
and  comfort  in  security  of  shadow — rather  than  the  always 
rubbing  and  vanishing  blacklead.  But  it  is  an  entirely  re¬ 
stricted  method,  and  must  be  abandoned  in  all  advanced  study, 
and  the  pencil  used  alone  both  for  shade  and  line,  until  the 
finer  gradations  of  shadow  are  understood.  Then  color  may 
be  used  with  the  pencil  for  notation,  and  every  power  at  once 
is  in  the  workman’s  hands.  The  two  first  studies  in  our 
series  are  perfect  instances  of  this  conclusive  method.* 

There  were  more  reasons,  and  better  ones,  than  the  students 


*  For  further  notes  on  the  methods  of  shape  proper  to  the  great 
masters,  the  reader  may  consult  the  third  and  fourth  numbers  of  iny 
Laws  of  Fesole. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


245 


of  to-day  would  suppose,  for  his  not  adopting  it  oftener.  The 
subjects  in  Cornwall  and  Derbyshire,  by  which  his  mind  was 
first  formed,  were  most  of  them  wholly  discouraging  in  color, 
if  not  gloomy  or  offensive.  Gray  blocks  of  whinstone,  black 
timbers,  and  broken  walls  of  clay,  needed  no  iridescent  illus¬ 
tration  ;  the  heath  and  stonecrop  were  beyond  his  skill  ;  and, 
had  he  painted  them  with  the  staunchest  efforts,  would  not 
have  been  translatable  into  the  coarse  lithographs  for  Acker- 
mann’s  drawing-books,  the  publication  of  which  was  at  that 
time  a  principal  source  of  income  to  him.  His  richer  Conti¬ 
nental  subjects  of  later  times  were  often  quite  as  independent 
of  color,  and  in  nearly  every  case  taken  under  circumstances 
rendering  its  imitation  impossible.  He  might  be  permitted 
by  indulgent  police  to  stop  a  thoroughfare  for  an  hour  or  two 
with  a  crowd  of  admirers,  but  by  no  means  to  settle  himself 
in  a  comfortable  tent  upon  the  pavement  for  a  couple  of 
months,  or  set  up  a  gypsy  encampment  of  pots  and  easel  in  the 
middle  of  the  market-place.  Also,  his  constitution,  as  delicate 
as  it  was  sanguine,  admitted  indeed  of  his  sitting  without 
harm  for  half  an  hour  in  a  shady  lane,  or  basking  for  part  of 
the  forenoon  in  a  sunny  piazza,  but  would  have  broken  down 
at  once  under  the  continuous  strain  necessary  to  paint  a  pict¬ 
ure  in  the  open  air.  And  under  these  conditions  the  wonder 
is  only  how  he  did  so  much  that  was  attentive  and  true,  and 
that  even  his  most  conventional  water-colors  are  so  refined  in 
light  and  shade  that  even  the  slightest  become  almost  majestic 
when  engraved. 

1.  Calais. 

Sketch  on  the  spot,  of  the  best  time  and  highest 
quality — the  clouds  put  in  as  they  stood — the  brig  as  she 
lay — the  figures  where  they  measure  the  space  of  sand, 
and  give  the  look  of  busy  desolateness,  which  poor  Calais 
— crown  jewel  of  England — had  fallen  to  in  our  day 
Prout’s  and  mine.  You  see  the  size  of  the  steam-packet 
of  the  period  ;  you  may  trust  Prout’s  measure  of  its  mag¬ 
nitude,  as  aforesaid.  So  also  of  belfry,  lighthouse,  and 
church — very  dear  all  to  the  old  painter,  as  to  me.  I 


246 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


gave  my  own  drawing  of  the  lighthouse  and  belfry,  No. 
104,  to  the  author  of  Rab  and  his  Friends ,  who  may  per¬ 
haps  lend  it  me  for  comparison.*  My  drawing  of  the 
church  spire  is  lost  to  me,  but  somewhere  about  in  the 
world,  I  hope,  and  perhaps  may  be  yet  got  hold  of,  and 
kept  with  this  drawing,  for  memory  of  old  Calais,  and  il¬ 
lustration  of  what  was  meant  by  the  opening  passage  of 
the  fourth  volume  of  “Modern  Painters.”  (Appendix II.) 

Take  the  lens  f  to  the  gate  of  the  tower  (above  the 
steamer)  and  see  how,  in  such  a  little  bit,  the  architecture 
is  truly  told.  Compare  Hogarth’s  Gate  of  Calais. 

2.  Calais  Old  Pier. 

Turner’s  great  subject.  But  Turner’s  being  earlier 
taken,  while  the  English  packet  was  still  only  a  fast-sail¬ 
ing  cutter — (steam  unthought  of !)  A  perfect  gem  of 
masterful  study,  and  quiet  feeling  of  the  facts  of  eternal 
sea  and  shore. 

The  solemnly  rendered  mystery  of  the  deep  and  far 
sea  ;  the  sway  of  the  great  waves  entering  over  the  bar  at 
the  harbor’s  mouth  ;  the  ebbing  away  of  the  sand  at  the 
angle  of  the  pier;  the  heaping  of  it  in  hills  against  its 
nearer  side,  J  and  the  way  in  which  all  is  made  huge, 
bleak,  and  wild  by  the  deeper  tone  of  the  dark  sail  and 
figure,  are  all  efforts  of  the  highest  art  faculty,  which  we 
cannot  too  much  honor  and  thank. 

3.  Studies  of  French  and  Netherland  Figures  and  Dili¬ 

gences. 

Exemplary  in  the  manner  of  abstract,  and  perfect  in 
figure  drawing,  for  his  purposes.  They  are  poor  persons, 


*  It  was  exhibited  last  year,  hut  if  it  comes  from  Scotland,  will  be 
shown  again  for  proof  of  Prout’s  fidelity  in  distant  form. 

fFor  proper  study  of  any  good  work  in  painting  and  drawing,  the 
student  should  always  have  in  his  hand  a  magnifying  glass  of  moderate 
power,  from  two  to  three  inches  in  diameter. 

X  Compare  the  sentence  respecting  this  same  place,  Appendix  II. , 
“  surfy  sand,  and  liillocked  shore.” 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


247 


you  see — all  of  them.  Not  quite  equal  to  Miss  Kate 
Greenaway’s  in  grace,  nor  to  Mrs.  Allingham’s  in  face 
(they,  therefore,  you  observe,  have  mostly  their  backs  to 
us).  But  both  Miss  Kate  and  Mrs.  Allingham  might  do 
better  duty  to  their  day,  and  better  honor  to  their  art, 
if  they  would  paint,  as  verily,  some  of  these  poor  country 
people  in  far-away  places,  rather  than  the  high-bred  pret¬ 
tinesses  or  fond  imaginations,  which  are  the  best  they 
have  given  us  yet  for  antidote  to  the  misery  of  London. 

4.  Abbeville.  Church  of  St.  Wulfran. 

Seen  from  the  west,  over  old  houses  (since  destroyed). 
Of  the  artist’s  best  time  and  manner.  See  Preface,  page 
233. 

5.  Abbeville.  Church  of  St.  Wulfran — the  northwestern 

TOWER,  WITH  OLD  HOUSES. 

Elaborate.  Of  the  late  time,  but  not  in  the  highest 
degree  good.  The  chiaroscuro  of  the  pinnacles  evident¬ 
ly  caught  on  the  spot,  but  not  carried  through  the  draw¬ 
ing  rightly,  and  the  whole  much  mannered.  Precious, 
however,  for  all  that. 

6.  Photograph  of  the  Porches  of  St.  Wulfran,  Abbeville. 

7.  Amiens. 

One  of  the  best  of  the  best  time.  See  Preface,  page 
232,  and  compare  the  extract  from  “Modern  Painters,” 
given  in  Appendix  III. 

8.  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  in  St.  Jaques,  Dieppe. 

One  of  the  best  studies  of  the  last  period.  See  further 
notes  on  it  under  the  number  17. 

9.  Evreux. 

Perfect  sketch  of  the  best  time,  and  most  notable  for 
the  exquisite  grace  of  proportion  in  its  wooden  belfry. 
No  architect,  however  accurate  in  his  measurements — no 
artist,  however  sensitive  in  his  admiration — ever  gave  the 


248 


NOTES  ON  PROUT . 


proportion  and  grace  of  Gothic  spires  and  towers  with 
the  loving  fidelity  that  Prout  did.  This  is  much  to  say ; 
and  therefore  I  say  it  again  deliberately  :  there  are  no 
existing  true  records  of  the  real  effect  of  Gothic  towers 
and  spires — except  only  Prout’s.  And  now  I  must  be 
tedious  a  while,  and  explain  what  I  mean  in  saying  this — 
being  much — and  show  it  to  be  true.  Observe  first — 
everything  in  grace  of  form  depends  on  truth  of  scale. 
You  don’t  show  how  graceful  a  thing  is,  till  you  show 
how  large  it  is ;  for  all  grace  means  ultimately  the  use  of 
strength  in  the  right  way,  moral  and  physical,  against  a 
given  force.  A  swan,  no  bigger  than  a  butterfly,  would 
not  be  graceful — its  grace  is  in  its  proportion  to  the 
waves  and  power  over  them.  A  butterfly  as  large  as  a 
swan  would  not  be  graceful — its  beauty  is  in  being  so 
small  that  the  winds  play  with  it,  but  do  not  vex  it.  A 
hollow  traceried  spire  fifteen  feet  high  would  be  effem¬ 
inate  and  frivolous,  for  it  would  be  stronger  solid — a  hol¬ 
low  traceried  spire  five  hundred  feet  high,  is  beautiful ; 
for  it  is  safer  so,  and  the  burden  of  the  builder’s  toil 
spared.  All  wisdom — economy — beauty,  and  holiness, 
are  one ;  harmonious  throughout — in  all  places,  times, 
and  things  :  understand  any  one  of  their  orders,  and  do 
it — it  will  lead  you  to  another — to  all  others,  in  time. 

Now,  therefore,  think  why  this  spire  of  Evreux  is 
graceful.  If  it  were  only  silver  filigree  over  a  salt-cellar, 
it  would  still  be  pretty  (for  it  is  beautifully  varied  and 
arranged).  But  not  “graceful  ”  (or  full  of  grace).  The 
reason  is  that  it  is  built,  not  with  silver,  but  with  aspen 
logs,  and  because  there  has  been  brought  a  strange  refine¬ 
ment  and  melody,  as  of  chiming  in  tune,  and  virtue  of 
uprightness — and  precision  of  pointedness,  into  the  aspen 
logs,  which  nobody  could  ever  have  believed  it  teas  in  a 
log  to  receive.  And  it  is  graceful  also,  because  it  is  evi¬ 
dently  playful  and  bright  in  temper.  There  are  no  labor¬ 
ing  logs  visible — no  propping,  or  thrusting,  or  bearing 
Jogs — no  mass  of  enduring  and  afflicted  timber — only  im¬ 
aginative  timber,  aspiring  just  high  enough  for  praise, 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


249 


not  for  ambition.  Twice  as  high  as  it  ever  could  have 
stood  in  a  tree — by  honor  of  men  done  to  it ;  but  not  so 
high  as  to  strain  its  strength,  and  make  it  weak  among 
the  winds,  or  perilous  to  the  people. 

Strasburg — The  Cathedral  Spire. 

I  have  put  this  drawing— quite  one  of  the  noblest  in  all 
the  series — out  of  its  geographical  place,  and  beside  the 
Evreux,  that  you  may  compare  the  qualities  of  grace  in 
wooden  and  stone  buildings ;  and  follow  out  our  begun 
reasoning  further. 

Examine  first  how  the  height  is  told.  Conscientiously, 
to  begin  with.  He  had  not  room  enough  on  his  paper 
(perhaps),  and  put  the  top  at  the  side  rather  than  blunt 
or  diminish  the  least  bit.  I  say  “  perhaps,”  because,  with 
most  people,  that  would  have  been  the  way  of  it ;  but  my 
own  private  opinion  is,  that  he  never  meant  to  have  room 
on  his  paper  for  it — that  he  felt  instinctively  that  it  was 
grander  to  have  it  going  up  nobody  knew  where — only 
that  he  could  not  draw  it  so  for  the  public,  and  must 
have  the  top  handy  to  put  on  afterward. 

Conscientiously,  first,  the  height  is  told  ;  next,  artfully. 
He  chooses  his  place  just  where  you  can  see  the  principal 
porch  at  the  end  of  the  street — takes  care,  by  every  arti¬ 
fice  of  perspective  and  a  little  exaggeration  of  aerial  tone, 
to  make  you  feel  how  far  off  it  is  ;  then  carries  it  up  into 
the  clearer  air.  Of  course,  if  you  don’t  notice  the  distant 
porch,  or  are  not  in  the  habit  of  measuring  the  size  of  one 
part  of  a  thing  by  another,  you  will  not  feel  it  here — but 
neither  would  you  have  felt  it  there,  at  Strasburg  itself. 

Next  for  composition.  If  you  ever  read  my  last  year’s 
notes  on  Turner,  you  must  remember  how  often  I  had  to 
dwell  on  his  way  of  conquering  any  objectionable  charac¬ 
ter  in  his  main  subject  by  putting  more  of  the  same  char¬ 
acter  in  something  else,  where  it  was  not  objectionable. 
Now  it  happens  to  be  one  of  the  chief  faults  of  Strasburg 
Spire  (and  it  has  many,  for  all  the  reputation  of  it),  to  be 
far  too  much  constituted  of  meagre  upright  lines  (see  the 


250 


NOTES  ON  PROTIT. 


angle  staircases,  and  process  of  their  receding  at  the  top, 
and  the  vertical  shafts  across  the  window  at  its  base). 
Prout  instantly  felt,  as  he  drew  the  tower,  that,  left  to 
itself  it  would  be  too  ironlike  and  stiff.  He  does  not  dis¬ 
guise  this  character  in  the  least,  but  conquers  it  utterly  by 
insisting  with  all  his  might  on  the  flutings  of  the  pilasters 
of  the  near  well.  “  How  ill  drawn  these  !  ”  you  say.  Yes, 
but  he  hates  these  in  themselves,  and  does  not  care  how 
badly  he  draws  them,  so  only  that  by  their  ugly  help  he 
can  save  the  Cathedral.  Which  they  completely  do  ;  tak¬ 
ing  all  the  stiffness  out  of  it,  and  leaving  it  majestic. 
Next — he  uses  contrast  to  foil  its  beauty,  as  he  has  used 
repetition  to  mask  its  faults.  In  the  Abbeville,  No.  4,  he 
had  a  beautiful  bit  of  rustic  white  wall  to  set  off  his  towers 
with.  Here,  in  Strasburg,  half  modernized,  alas  !  even  in 
his  time,  he  finds  nothing  better  than  the  great  ugly  white 
house  behind  the  lamp.  In  old  times,  remember,  a  series 
of  gables  like  that  of  the  last  house  would  have  gone  all 
down  the  street.  (Compare  the  effect  in  Antwerp,  No. 
19,  all  contemporary. )  Prout  will  not  do  any  “restora¬ 
tion  ” — he  knows  better ;  but  he  could  easily  have  dis¬ 
guised  this  white  house  with  cast  shadows  across  the 
street  and  some  blinds  and  carpets  at  the  windows.  But 
the  white,  vulgar  mass  shall  not  be  so  hidden,  and  the 
richness  of  all  the  old  work  shall  gain  fulness  out  of  the 
modern  emptiness,  and  modesty  out  of  the  modern  im¬ 
pudence. 

Pre-eminently  the  gain  is  to  the  dear  old  gabled  house 
on  the  right,  which  is  the  real  subject  of  the  drawing, 
being  a  true  Strasburg  dwelling-house  of  the  great  times. 
But  before  speaking  more  of  this,  I  must  ask  you  to  look 
at  the  next  subject. 

12.  Lisieux,  Old  Street  in. 

This,  though  it  contains  so  much  work,  is  a  hurried  and 
fatigued  drawing — fatigued  itself  in  a  sense,  as  having 
more  touches  put  on  it  than  were  good  for  it  ;  and  the 
sign  of  fatigue  in  the  master,  or  perhaps  rather  of  passing 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


251 


illness,  for  he  seems  never  to  have  been  tired  in  the  or¬ 
dinary  way.  The  unusually  confused  and  inarticulate 
figures,  the  more  or  less  wriggled  and  ill-drawn  draperies, 
and  the  unfinished  foundation  of  the  house  on  the  right, 
where  actually  there  is  a  line  crossing  another  unin¬ 
tentionally  !  are  all  most  singular  with  him  ;  and  I  fancy 
he  must  have  come  on  this  subject  at  the  end  of  a  sickly- 
minded  day,  and  yet  felt  that  he  must  do  all  he  could 
for  it,  and  then  broken  down. 

He  has  resolved  to  do  it  justice,  at  least  in  the  draw¬ 
ing  No.  ,  one  of  the  best  in  the  room  ;  but  there  are 
characters  in  the  subject  itself  which,  without  his  quite 
knowing  why,  cramped  him,  and  kept  several  of  his  finer 
powers  from  coming  into  play. 

Note  first,  essentially,  he  is  a  draughtsman  of  stone, 
not  wood,  and  a  tree-trunk  is  always  wholly  beyond  his 
faculty ;  so  that,  when  everything  is  wooden,  as  here, 
he  has  to  translate  his  stony  manner  for  it  all  through, 
and  is  as  if  speaking  a  foreign  language.  In  the  finished 
drawing,  one  scarcely  knows  whether  the  near  doorway 
is  stone  or  wood. 

And  there  was  one  character,  I  repeat,  in  this  subject 
that  specially  strained  this  weak  part  of  him.  When  a 
wooden  house  is  in  properly  wooden  style— he  can  always 
do  it,  as  at  Abbeville  and  Strasburg.  But  this  street 
at  Lisieux  is  a  wooden  street  in  stone  style.  I  feel  even 
tempted  to  write  fine  scientific  modern  English  about  it, 
and  say  it  is  objectively  lignologic  and  subjectively  petro¬ 
logic.  The  crossing  beams  of  the  wall-courses,  and  king¬ 
posts  of  the  gables  in  dormer  windows  are  indeed 
properly  expressive  of  timber  structure  ;  but  all  the 
sculpture  is  imitative  of  the  forms  developed  in  the  stone 
traceries  of  the  same  period  —  seen  perfectly  in  the 
elaborate  drawing,  No.  8. 

Those  traceries  were  themselves  reciprocally  cor¬ 
rupted,  as  we  shall  see  presently,  by  the  woodwork 
practised  all  round  them  ;  but  botli  the  Burgundian  and 
Norman  later  Gothic  was  corrupted  by  its  own  luxurious 


NOTES  ON  PROTJT. 


laziness,  before  it  took  any  infection  from  the  forest.  In¬ 
stead  of  building  a  real  pointed  arch — they  merely  put 
a  cross  lintel  with  a  nick  in  it  *  (a),  then  softened  the 
nick-edges  and  ran  a  line  of  moulding  round  it  (6),  and 


a  b  c 


then  ran  up  a  flourish  above  to  show  what  a  clever  thing 
they  had  done  (c) — and  there  you  are.  But  there  is 
much  more  curious  interest  in  this  form  of  wooden  im¬ 
itative  architecture  than  any  mere  matter  of  structural 
propriety. 

Please  compare  the  Lisieux  houses  in  No.  11,  with  the 
house  on  the  right  at  Strasburg  in  No.  10.  You  see 
there  are  no  pinnacles  nor  crockets  imitated  there.  All 
is  sternly  square — upright  timber  and  cross  timber — 
cut  into  what  ornamental  current  mouldings  the  work¬ 
man  knew. 

And  yet  you  see  the  Cathedral  at  the  side  is  eminent¬ 
ly  gabled  and  pinnacular !  Bun  your  eye  from  the 
square  window  of  the  second  story  of  the  house  (third 
from  ground),  along  to  the  cathedral  gabled  tracery. 
Could  any  two  stjdes  be  more  adverse  ?  While  on  the 
contrary,  the  Lisieux  street  is  merely  a  “changing  the 
willow  wreaths  to  stone  ” — in  imitation  of  the  chapel  of 
St.  Jaques  ?  It  is  true,  the  Lisieux  street  is  contempo¬ 
rary  with  St.  Jaques,  and  the  Strasburg  house  a  century 
or  so  later  than  the  Cathedral ;  but  that  is  not  the  reason 
of  the  opposition.  Had  they  been  either  pure  French 


*  Without  the  nick,  mind  you,  it  would  have  been  a  grand 
building — pure  Greek  or  pure  Tuscan,  and  capable  of  boundless 
good.  It  is  the  Nicolaitane  nick  that’s  the  devil. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


253 


or  pure  German,  the  two  would  have  declined  together 
and  have  died  together.  But  in  France  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  church,  noblesse,  and  people,  were  one  body,  and 
the  people  in  Lisieux  loved  and  delighted  in  their  clergy 
and  nobles,  as  the  Venetians  did — 

“Pontifices,  clerus,  populus,  duxmente  serenus.” 

But  Strasbourg  is  on  the  edge — nay,  on  the  Pole — of  all 
divisions.  Virtually,  from  west  to  east,  between  Dijon 
and  Berne  ;  virtually,  from  north  to  south,  between  Co¬ 
logne  and  Basle ;  virtually,  if  you  have  eyes  the  Diet  of 
Worms  is  in  it ;  the  Council  of  Constance  is  in  it ;  the 
Battle  of  Sempach  is  there,  and  the  rout  of  Granson. 

That  is  a  Swiss  cottage,  with  all  ecclesiastical  and  feudal 
powers  flaming  up  into  the  shy  at  the  side  of  it,  and  the 
iron  lances  and  lines  of  them  are  as  lace  round  the  “  Com¬ 
merce  de  Jean  Diehl.”  “  Commerce,”  a  grand  word,  which 
we  suppose  ourselves  here  to  understand,  an  entirely  vile 
one,  if  misunderstood.  Human  commerce,  a  business  for 
men  and  angels  ;  but  inhuman,  for  apes  and  spectres. 
We  must  look  at  a  few  more  street-scenes  in  order  to  find 
out  which  sort  Jean  Diehl’s  belongs  to. 

14.  Bayeux. 

A  small  sketch,  but  first-rate,  and  with  half  a  mile  of 
street  in  it.  Pure  and  plain  woodwork  this,  with  prop 
and  buttress  of  stumpy  stone — healthy  all,  and  sound  ; 
note  especially  the  strong  look  of  foundation,  as  opposed 
to  the  modern  style  of  house-front  in  most  commercial 
quarters — five  stories  of  brick  wall  standing  on  the  edge 
of  a  pane  of  plate-glass. 

15.  Tours. 

The  saints  presiding  over  an  old-clothes  shop,  appar¬ 
ently — but  it  may  be  the  fashionable  drapers  of  the 
quarter.  I  merely  give  it  as  an  example  of  the  developed 
form  of  bracket,  the  end  of  the  cross  timber  becoming 


254 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


a  niche,  and  the  prop,  a  saint — not  without  meaning. 
Much  more  strength  than  is  really  wanted  allowed  in  the 
backing,  so  that  these  corrugated  saints  do  not  by  their 
recessed  niches  really  weaken  the  structure.  Compare 
photograph,  No.  117. 

16.  Rouen.  The  Butter-tower. 

Built  with  the  octroi  on  butter — not  a  right  way — be 
it  spoken,  in  passing.  All  taxes  on  food  of  any  sort,  or 
drink  of  any  sort,  are  wrong,  whether  to  build  a  pious 
tower,  or  support  an  impious  government. 

A  tired  sketch — the  house  on  the  left,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  in  France,  hurried  and  ill  done. 

17.  Rouen.  Staircase  in  St.  Maclou. 

Almost  unique  in  the  elaboration  of  the  texture  in  mar¬ 
ble  pillar,  and  effect  of  distant  light,  showing  what  he  was 
capable  of  in  this  kind  ;  compare  St.  Jaques,  No.  8,  where 
he  gets  flickering  sunlight  through  painted  glass.  There, 
the  effect  is  pathetic  and  expressive  ;  but  both  texture  and 
effect  of  light  were  mistakes,  in  St.  Maclou  ;  it  does  not 
in  the  least  matter  to  the  staircase  whether  the  pillar  is 
smooth,  or  the  window  bright.  In  earlier  times  he  would 
have  merely  indicated  the  forms  of  both,  and  given  his 
time  to  gather  groups  of  figures  following  the  circular 
sweep  of  the  staircase. 

18.  Ghent. 

Having  run  south  now  as  far  as  I  care,  we  will  turn 
back,  please,  to  go  through  the  Netherlands  into  Germany. 
Pretty  nearly  all  the  Netherlands  are  in  this  and  the  fol¬ 
lowing  drawing.  Boats,  beside  houses  ;  the  boats  heavily 
practical  :  the  houses  heavily  fanciful ;  but  both  accurate 
and  perfect  in  their  way  ;  work  of  a  great,  though  fen- 
witted,  people.  The  Ghent  scene  is  the  very  cream  of 
Prout — all  that  he  could  best  do  in  his  happiest  times — 
his  Cornish  and  Hastings  boat-study  standing  him  in 
thorough  stead  here ,  though  it  will  fail  him  at  Venice,  as 
we  shall  sadly  see. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


255 


19.  Antwerp. 

Altogether  magnificent :  the  noble  street-scene,  requir¬ 
ing  no  effort  to  exalt,  no  artifice  to  conceal  a  single  fea¬ 
ture  in  it.  Pure  fact — the  stately  houses  and  the  simple 
market,  and  the  divine  tower.  You  would  like  adver¬ 
tisements  all  along  the  house-fronts,  instead,  wouldn’t 
you  ?  and  notices  of  sale — at  a  ruinous  sacrifice — in  the 
shop-windows,  wouldn’t  you?  and  a  tramway  up  the 
street,  and  a  railway  under  it,  and  a  gasometer  at  the  end 
of  it,  instead  of  a  cathedral — now,  wouldn’t  you  ? 

21.  Brunswick. 

Dainty  still ;  a  most  lovely  drawing.  I  didn’t  find  any¬ 
thing  so  good  in  the  town  myself,  but  was  not  there  until 
1859,  when,  I  suppose,  all  the  best  of  it  had  been  knocked 
down.  The  Stadthaus  (see  lithograph,  No.  93)  is  unique 
in  the  support  of  its  traceries  on  light  transverse  arches, 
but  this  innovation,  like  nearly  all  German  specialities  in 
Gothic,  is  grotesque,  and  affected  without  being  ingenious. 

22.  Dresden. 

An  exquisite  drawing  ;  and  most  curious  in  the  entire 
conquest  and  calming  down  of  Prout’s  usual  broken 
touch  into  Renaissance  smoothness.  It  is  the  best  exist¬ 
ing  representation  of  the  old  town,  and  readers  of  Fried¬ 
rich  may  care  to  know  what  it  was  like. 

23.  Prague. — Entrance  over  the  Bridge. 

A  drawing  already  noticed,  of  the  highest  quality. 
The  lithograph,  No.  91,  of  the  other  side  of  the  tower  on 
the  right,  enables  us  to  walk  back  the  other  way ;  it 
quite  one  of  the  best  drawings  in  the  book. 

24.  Prague. — The  Stadthaus. 

Both  lovely,  and  essentially  Proutesque,  as  a  drawing. 
Architecturally,  one  of  the  prettiest  possible  examples  of 
fourteenth  century  Gothic.  The  town  was  all,  more  or 
less,  like  that,  once — the  houses  beyond  have,  I  suppose, 
been  built  even  since  the  siege. 


256 


NOTES  ON  PliOUT. 


25.  Bamberg. 

I  include  this  drawing  in  our  series,  first  for  its  lovely 
crowd  of  figures  ;  and  secondly,  to  show  that  Prout  never 
attempts  to  make  anything  picturesque  that  naturally 
isn’t.  Domo  d’Ossola  and  Bologna  (47  and  64)  are  pic¬ 
turesque — in  the  drawings,  because  they  are  so  in  reality 
— and  heavy  Bamberg  remains  as  dull  as  it  pleases  to  be. 
This  strict  honesty  of  Prout’s  has  never  been  rightly  un¬ 
derstood,  because  he  didn’t  often  draw  dull  things,  and 
gleaned  the  picturesque  ones  out  of  every  hole  and  cor¬ 
ner  ;  so  that  everybody  used  to  think  it  -was  he  who  had 
made  them  picturesque.  But,  as  aforesaid,  he  is  really 
as  true  as  a  mirror. 

26.  Nuremberg,  Church  of  St.  ,  at. 

Of  the  best  time,  and  certainly  the  fullest  expres¬ 
sion  ever  given  of  the  character  of  the  church.  But  the 
composition  puzzled  him,  the  house  corner  on  left  com¬ 
ing  in  too  abruptly,  and  the  sketch  falls  short  of  his  best 
qualities  ;  he  gets  fatigued  with  the  richness  in  excess 
over  so  large  a  mass,  and  feels  that  nothing  of  foreground 
will  carry  it  out  in  harmony. 

28.  The  Drachenfels. 

When  I  said  that  Turner  and  Prout  stood  by  themselves 
in  power  of  rendering  magnitude,  I  don't  mean  on  the 
same  level,  of  course,  but  in  perfect  sympathy  ;  and  Tur¬ 
ner  himself  would  have  looked  with  more  than  admiration 
— with  real  respect — at  this  quiet  little  study.  I  have  never 
seen  any  other  picture  or  drawing  which  gave  so  intensely 
the  main  truths  of  the  breadth  and  prolonged  distances 
of  the  great  river,  and  the  scale  and  standing  of  the  rock, 
as  compared  with  the  buildings  and  woods  at  its  feet. 

The  “  standing  ”  of  the  rock,  I  say  especially  ;  for  it  is  in 
great  part  by  the  perfect  sculpture  and  build  of  its  but¬ 
tresses — (the  “  articulation  ”  which,  I  have  just  said,  Field¬ 
ing  shunned  as  too  troublesome)  that  the  effect,  or  rather 
information,  of  magnitude  is  given. 


NOTES  ON  PE  OUT. 


257 


And  next  to  this  rock  drawing,  the  clear  houses  and 
trees,  and  exquisite  little  boat — examined  well — complete 
the  story  of  mountain  power  by  their  intense  reality. 
Take  the  lens  to  them — there  is  no  true  enjoyment  to  be 

had  without  attention,  either  from  pictures,  or  the  truth 
itself. 

29.  Islands  on  the  Rhine. 

First,  the  power  of  the  Dragon  rock — then  of  the 
noble  river.  It  seems  to  have  been  an  especially  interest¬ 
ing  scene  this,  to  good  painters.  One  of  the  most  elab¬ 
orate  pieces  of  drawing  ever  executed  by  Turner  was 
from  this  spot. 

30.  The  Pfalz. 

Hurried  a  little,  and  too  black  in  distance — but  I  in¬ 
clude  it  in  the  series  for  a  most  interesting  bit  of  compo¬ 
sition  in  it.  The  building,  from  this  point  of  view,  had 
a  disagreeable  look  of  a  church-tower  surrounded  by 
pepper-boxes.  He  brings  it  into  a  mass,  and  makes  a 
fortress  of  it,  by  the  shadow  on  the  mountain  to  the 
right  of  the  tower,  almost  as  dark  as  a  bit  of  roof. 

32.  Worms. 

An  early  drawing — the  only  one  included  in  this  series 
— is  to  be  compared  with  the  careful  water-color,  No.  31. 

35.  Ulm. 

A  beautiful  drawing  of  one  of  the  most  interesting 
street  fountains  in  Germany.  It  is  given  in  this  sketch, 
as  usual,  with  entire  care  and  feeling  of  its  proportion. 
The  water-color  drawing,  No.  3G,  shows  the  little  inter¬ 
est  he  took  in  copying  for  the  Exhibition,  knowing  that 
the  British  mind  was  not  to  be  impressed  by  proportion, 
and  only  cared  for  getting  things  into  their  frames. 
The  lithograph,  No.  90,  is,  on  the  contrary,  one  of  his 
most  careful  works,  and  quite  true  to  the  place,  wdien  I 
saw  it  in  1835.  I  suppose  it  is  all  pulled  down,  and 
17 


258 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


made  an  “  esplanade  ”  of  by  tbis  time.  (See  “  Seven 
Lamps,”  p.  182,  in  Appendix  I.) 

37  and  33.  Swiss  and  German  Costumes. 

I  never  can  understand  how  these  groups  are  ever  de¬ 
signed  or  caught,  and  how  they  are  built  up,  one  by 
one.  No  painter  who  can  do  it  ever  tells  us  how. 

39.  Chillon. 

The  only  drawing  I  ever  saw  which  gave  the  real  rela¬ 
tion  of  the  castle  to  the  size  of  the  mountain  behind  it. 

40.  The  Dungeon  of  Chillon. 

I  must  leave  the  reader  now  to  make  what  he  may  of 
this  and  the  following  drawings  as  far  as  47 :  all  of 
them,  to  people  who  know  the  old  look  of  the  places, 
will  be  interesting  ;  but  I  have  no  time  to  enlarge  on 
them. 

41.  Montreux. 

42.  Waterfall  under  the  Dent  du  Midi,  in  the  Rhone  Valley. 

43.  Village  of  Martigny. 

46.  Brieg. 

47.  Domo  d’Ossola. 

One  of  the  most  exemplary  in  the  room,  for  intense 
fidelity  to  the  place,  and  lovely  composition  of  living 
groups.  Note  the  value  of  the  upright  figure  in  the 
balcony  on  the  left,  in  breaking  up  and  enriching  the 
mass,  and  joining  it  with  the  rest. 

48.  Como. 

Enough  dwelt  on  in  the  preface. 

49.  The  Monument  of  Can  Signorio  della  Scala,  at  Verona. 

Note  that  the  low  sarcophagus  on  the  left,  of  much 
finer  time  than  the  richer  tomb,  has  on  its  side  a  has' 


NOTES  ON  PE  OUT. 


259 


relief  representing  tlie  Madonna  enthroned  between  two 
angels,  a  third  angel  presents  to  her  the  dead  knight’s 
soul,  kneeling. 

60.  The  large  drawing  of  the  subject,  No.  50,  has  lost  all 
these  particulars.  Was  it  all  Prout’s  fault,  shall  we  say  ? 
Was  there  anyone,  in  his  time,  of  English  travellers,  who 
would  have  thanked  him  for  a  madonna  and  a  dead  old 
Scaliger,  done  ever  so  clearly  ? 

56.  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the  West. 

57.  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the  East. 

58.  St.  Michael’s  Mount,  Normandy. 

I  have  put  No.  58  in  this  eccentric  manner,  after  the 
Ducal  Palace,  that  the  reader  may  feel,  for  good  and  all, 
Prout’s  intense  appreciation  of  local  character — his  gayety 
with  the  gay,  and  his  strength  with  the  strong.  Cornish- 
bred,  his  own  heart  is  indeed  in  the  rocks,  and  towers, 
and  sands  of  the  fraternal  Norman  shore — and  it  fails 
him  in  Venice,  where  the  conditions  alike  of  her  mas- 
quing  and  her  majesty  were  utterly  strange  to  him. 
Still,  the  sense  of  light,  and  motion,  and  splendor  above 
the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni  ;  and  of  gloom,  and  iron-fastness, 
and  poverty,  midst  the  silent  sands  of  Avranches,  are  ren¬ 
dered  by  the  mirror  of  him,  as  if  you  had  but  turned  its 
face  from  sun  to  shade. 

The  St.  Michael’s  is  an  entirely  grand  drawing.  The 
St.  Raphael’s — for  that  is  indeed  the  other  name  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  * — on  this  side,  has  many  faults  ;  but  is 
yet,  out  and  out,  the  best  Ducal  Palace  that  has  as  yet 
been  done.  It  is  not  an  architectural  drawing — does  not 


*  The  angel  Michael  is  the  angle  statue  on  the  3outh west  (seen  in 
No.  56),  with  the  inscription,  “  With  my  sword  I  guard  the  good,  and 
cleanse  the  evil.’  The  angel  Raphael  holds  in  his  hands  the  nations 
prayer  to  him,  “Raphael,  the  dreadful  (“  reverende  ),  make  thou  the 
deep  quiet,  we  beseech  thee.” 


NOTES  ON  PROTJT. 


260 


in  the  least  pretend  to  be.  No  one  had  ever  drawn  the  trace¬ 
ries  of  the  Ducal  Palace  till  I  did  myself.  Canaletto,  in 
his  way,  is  just  as  false  as  Prout — Turner  no  better.  Not 
one  of  them  painted  anything  but  their  general  impres¬ 
sions  ;  and  not  a  soul  in  England  knew  that  there  was  a 
system  in  Venetian  architecture  at  all,  until  I  made  the 
measured  (to  half  and  quarter  inches)  elevation  of  it  (No. 
105),  and  gave  the  analysis  of  its  tracery  mouldings  and 
their  development,  from  those  of  the  Franciscans  at  the 
Frari  (“  Stones  of  Venice,”  vol.  ii.).  This  study  of  Prout’s, 
then,  I  repeat,  does  not  pretend  to  architectural  accu¬ 
racy  ;  and  it  has  even  one  very  considerable  fault.  Prout’s 
mind  had  been  so  formed  among  buildings  solid  at  the 
base,  and  aerial  at  the  top,  that  he  not  only  could  not 
enjoy,  he  could  not  even  see,  the  national  audacity  of 
the  great  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  in  supporting  its 
wall  on,  virtually,  two  rows  of  marble  piles  ;  and,  at  the 
further  end,  just  where  the  shafts  at  the  angle  let  the 
winds  blow  through  them  as  frankly  as  the  timbers  of 
Calais  pier,*  he  blackens  them  all  up  inside,  as  if  the 
backing  wall  were  solid  and  the  arches  were  only  niches. 


*  The  real  and  marvellous  structure  of  the  angle  is  admirably 
shown  in  the  photograph,  No.  106a,  though  the  quantity  of  light 
penetrating  the  shafts  is  a  little  exaggerated  in  effect  by  uniting 
with  the  light  sides  of  the  shafts.  Taking  the  lens  to  the  photo¬ 
graph,  you  will  see  this  line  is  destroyed  by  the  modern  gas-lamp 
stuck  across  the  Italian  sculpture,  and  you  may  admire  at  leisure 
the  other  improvements  made  by  the  art  of  the  nineteenth  century 
on  the  effect  of  the  piazzetta.  The  combination  of  the  fore  and 
mizzen  masts  of  the  huge  steamer  whose  hull,  with  its  boat,  blocks 
out  the  whole  lagoon  ;  and  of  the  upright  near  gas-lamp,  with  the 
pillar  of  St.  Mark — the  introduction  of  the  steamer's  painted 
funnel  to  form  a  foundation  for  the  tower  of  San  Giorgio — the 
bathing  establishment  anchored  beyond  the  pillars,  just  where 
the  Bucentaur  used  to  lie  close  to  the  quay  to  receive  the  Doge  ; 
and,  finally,  the  bills  pasted  on  the  sheds  at  the  base  of  St. 
Mark’s  column,  advising  us  of  improving  works  of  a  liberal  tone, 
such  as  the  “  Storia  della  Natura,”  and  the  “  Misteri  della  In- 
quisizione  di  Spagna.”  In  this  same  Loggia  of  Sansovino’s,  against 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


261 


For  all  that,  there  never  was  anything  so  true  to  the 
general  splendor  and  life  of  the  palace  done  before,  nor 
ever  will  be  again.* * 

There  are  two  points — technical  both  and  spiritual 
both — which  the  reader  must  note  in  this  drawing. 

The  first,  how  thankful  Prout  is  for  the  clusters  of 
doves  along  the  upper  line  of  the  cornice.  “  They  might 
as  well  be  jackdaws,”  you  think?  Well,  as  aforesaid, 
Prout  is  not  a  colorist,  else  he  would  have  made  his 
boats  black  and  his  doves  gray ;  but  then  he  would  have 
been  Carpaccio,  and  not  Prout.  This  is  really  all  you 
can  expect  him  to  do  for  a  dove,  with  his  poor  Cumber¬ 
land  plumbago  ;  and,  after  all,  the  glory  of  the  creatures 
is  not  in  being  pigeons,  but  in  being  Venetians.  Swal¬ 
low  or  sparrow,  daw  or  dove,  sea-gull  by  Achilles’  isle  or 
chough  by  Cornish  cliff— that  they  are  living  with  us  by 
shore  and  altar,  under  cottage  eaves  and  around  palace 
council  chambers,  that  is  their  glory — and,  if  we  knew  it, 
our  peace. 

The  other  point  is  more  definitely  technical,  yet  has  its 
lesson  in  other  directions  also.  I  have  already  again  and 
again  insisted  on  Prout’s  way  of  taking  up  his  stitches, 
and  carrying  one  part  of  his  work  into  another.  Look 
back  to  what  is  said  of  the  Como  in  preface.  He  is  no 
more  content  with  his  Ducal  Palace  till  he  has  got  it  well 
into  fugue  with  its  crowd  than  he  was  with  these  old 
houses  by  the  harbor.  He  won’t  break  the  corner  of  its 


which  these  sheds  are  built,  the  “  Misteri  ”  of  the  Government 
Lottery  are  also  revealed  weekly  to  the  popular  mind. 

*  And  in  the  great  drawing  (No.  60)  lent  by  Lord  Coleridge  the 
upper  story  is  singularly  and  gracefully  accurate  in  the  pinnacled 
Gothic  of  its  central  window,  and  in  the  various  elevations  and 
magnitudes  of  the  rest.  The  two  upper  windows  in  the  shade  at 
the  nearest  angle  are  the  oldest  portion  of  the  Palace  visible,  and 
Prout  has  carefully  noted  their  different  curve.  The  bright  and 
busy  figures  are  true  to  old  times  only,  for  the  building  is  now  being 
restored,  and  no  man  with  a  heart  will  ever  draw  the  patched 
skeleton  of  it  more. 


262 


NOTE 8  ON  PROUT. 


arcade,  but  just  flutes,  as  it  were,  a  single  pillar  with  the 
mast  of  a  boat,  and  then  carries  the  mast  down — stopping 
the  arch-mouldings  for  it,  observe,  as  he  draws  them,  so 
deliberate  is  he,  and,  getting  well  down  so  to  his  figures, 
rivets  the  rent  of  the  canal  across  with  the  standing  one, 
just  under  Michael  Steno’s  central  window,  and  then  car¬ 
ries  all  away  to  the  right,  with  the  sitting  figures  and  lev¬ 
elled  sails  in  harmony  with  the  courses  of  the  palace,  and 
to  the  left,  with  the  boats.  Hide  one  of  these  founda¬ 
tional  forms  with  your  hand,  and  see  how  the  palace  goes 
to  pieces !  There  are  many  compositions  in  the  room 
more  felicitous  ;  but  there  is  no  other  in  which  the  op¬ 
posite  influence  to  the  “little  rift  within  the  lute” — the 
stitch  in  time  that  saves  nine — is  so  delicately  and  so  in¬ 
tensely  illustrated  as  by  the  service  of  this  single  boat- 
spar  to  every  shaft  of  the  whole  Ducal  Palace. 

With  respect  to  these  Venice  drawings  there  are  two 
metaphysical  problems — in  my  own  mind,  of  extreme  in¬ 
solubility — and  on  which  I  therefore  do  not  enlarge, 
namely,  why  Prout,  practical  among  all  manner  of  Corn¬ 
ish  and  Kentish  boats,  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  draw 
a  gondola  ;  and  the  second,  why,  not  being  able  to  draw 
a  gondola,  he  yet  never  gave  the  grand  Adriatic  fishing- 
boat,  with  its  colored  sail,  instead.  These,  and  other 
relative  questions  still  more  abstruse — as,  for  instance, 
why  he  could  draw  the  domes  of  Dresden  rightly,  and 
yet  made  the  Madonna  della  Salute  look  like  the  Na¬ 
tional  Gallery  or  Bethlehem  Hospital — I  must  for  the 
present  leave  for  the  reader’s  own  debate,  and  only  at 
speed  give  some  account  of  the  points  to  be  illustrated 
by  the  supplementary  drawings. 

People  often  ask  me — and  people  who  have  been  long 
at  Venice  too— -of  the  subject  No.  55,  where  those  square 
pillars  are,  and  what  they  are.  The  corner  of  the  Piaz- 
zetta  from  which  this  view  is  taken  was  once  the  sweetest 
of  all  sacred  niches  in  that  great  marble  withdrawing- 
room  of  the  Piazzetta  of  St.  Mark’s.  Mv  old  sketch,  No. 
J07,  shows  approximately  the  color  of  the  marble  walls 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


263 


and  pavement  of  it,  and  the  way  the  white  flowers  of  the 
Greek  pillars — purest  Byzantine  —  shone  through  the 
dark  spots  of  lichen.  The  Daguerreotype,  No.  114, 
taken  under  my  own  direction,  gives  the  light  and  shade 
of  them,  chosen  just  where  the  western  sunlight  catches 
the  edge  of  the  cross  at  the  base  of  the  nearer  one  ;  and 
my  study,  No.  108,  shows  more  fully  the  character  of  the 
Byzantine  chiselling  —  entirely  freehand,  flinging  the 
marble  acanthus-leaves  here  and  there  as  they  would 
actually  grow.  It  is  through  work  of  this  kind  that  the 
divine  Greek  power  of  the  days  of  Hesiod  came  down  to 
animate  the  mosaic  workers  in  St.  Mark’s,  in  the  elev¬ 
enth  century. 

They  worked  under  a  Greek  princess,  of  whom  the 
reader  will  find  some  legend  (though  yet  I  have  not  been 
able  to  do  more  than  begin  her  story)  in  the  second  num¬ 
ber  of  “  St.  Mark’s  Rest.”  *  In  the  third  I  have  given  some 
account  of  the  entire  series  of  mosaics  which  were  com¬ 
pleted  by  her  husband  under  the  influence  of  his  Greek 
queen  (true  queen ,  mind  you,  at  that  time,  the  Duke  of 
Venice  then  wearing  the  king’s  diadem,  not  the  republi¬ 
can  cap) ;  and  I  besought  my  readers  at  Venice  and  else¬ 
where  to  help  me  to  get  some  faithful  record  of  these 
mosaics  before  they  perished  by  modern  restoration.  I 
have  never  made  a  more  earnest  appeal  for  anything — 
and  indeed  I  believe,  had  it  been  for  a  personal  gift — 
another  Splugen  drawing,  or  the  like — I  should  have  got 
it  by  this  time  easily  enough.  But  there  are  always 
twenty  people  who  will  do  what  they  feel  to  be  kind,  for 
one  who  will  take  my  advice  about  an  important  public 
object.  And — if  they  only  knew  it — the  one  real  kind- 


*  My  readers  continually  complain  that  they  can’t  get  my 
presently  issuing  books.  There  is  not  a  bookseller  in  London, 
however,  who  is  not  perfectly  well  aware  that  the  said  books  are 
always  to  be  had  by  a  post-card  sent  to  my  publisher,  Mr.  G. 
Allen,  Sunnyside,  Orpington,  Kent,  to  whom  subscriptions  for  the 
object  stated  in  the  text  are  to  be  sent  (or  the  books  may  be 
had  of  the  Fine  Art  Society ). 


264 


NOTES  ON  PROTJT. 


ness  they  can  show  to  me  is  in  listening  to  me — under¬ 
standing,  in  the  first  place,  that  I  know  my  business 
better  at  sixty  than  I  did  at  five-and-twenty  ;  and  in  the 
second,  that  my  happiness,  such  as  yet  remains  to  me, 
does  not  at  all  consist  in  the  things  about  me  in  my 
own  parlor,  but  in  the  thought  that  the  principles  I  have 
taught  are  being  acted  upon,  and  the  great  buildings  and 
great  scenes  I  have  tried  to  describe  saved,  so  far  as  may 
yet  be  possible,  from  destruction  and  desecration.  At 
this  very  hour,  the  committees  of  Venetian  builders  are 
meeting  to  plot  the  total  destruction,  and  re-erection 
according  to  their  own  notions,  and  for  their  own  emolu¬ 
ment,  of  the  entire  west  front  of  St.  Mark’s — that  which 
Barbarossa  knelt  under,  and  before  which  Dandolo  took 
his  vow  for  Palestine !  And  in  the  meantime  the  Chris¬ 
tian  populace  of  all  Europe  is  quarrelling  about  their 
little  parish  reredoses  and  wax-candles  !  * 

And  so  it  comes  to  pass,  that  the  floor  of  St.  Mark’s  is 
already  destroyed,  together  with  the  north  and  south 
sides  ;  only  the  west  front  and  roof  mosaics  are  yet  left, 
and  these  are  instantly  threatened.  I  have  got  an  abso¬ 
lutely  faithful  and  able  artist,  trained  by  Mr.  Burne 
Jones,  to  undertake  the  copying  of  the  whole  series  of 
mosaics  yet  uninjured.  He  is  doing  this  for  love  and 
mere  journeyman’s  wages — how  carefully  and  thorough¬ 
ly  the  three  examples  in  this  room  (114,  115,  116)  will 
enough  show ;  but  he  has  been  six  months  at  work  alone, 
unable  to  employ  assistants,  and  all  that  I  have  yet  got 
for  him  by  the  eagerest  appeals  I  could  make  at  Venice 
and  here  is — some  hundred  and  seventy  pounds,  and  half 
of  that  from  a  single  personal  friend  !  f 

*  It  may  perhaps  not  he  quite  too  late  to  contradict  a  report  that 
appeared  in  some  Irish  paper,  that  I  had  been  lately  in  Dublin, 
giving  some  opinion  or  other  about  reredoses.  I  have  not  been 
in  Ireland  these  ten  years — never  shall  be  in  Ireland  more — and 
care  no  more  about  any  modern  churches  or  church  furniture 
than  about  the  drop-scene  at  Drury  Lane — not  so  much  indeed, 
if  the  truth  were  all  told. 

f  £  s.  d,  by  report  from  Mr.  Allen,  of  12th  November. 


NOTES  ON  TROUT. 


265 


I  will  have  a  little  circular  drawn  up,  stating  these  and 
other  relative  facts  clearly,  before  the  close  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  exhibition.  Before  its  opening,  I  can  allow  myself 
now  little  more  than  the  mere  explanation  of  what  it 
contains. 

And  now  I  really  haven’t  time  to  talk  any  more,  and 
yet  I’ve  ever  so  much  to  say,  if  I  could,  of  the  following 
drawings  at  Arqua  and  Nuremberg,  77  and  70.  I  must 
at  least  say  at  once  why  these,  like  Venice  and  St.  Mi¬ 
chael’s  Mount,  go  side  by  side. 

In  the  first  place,  I  believe  that  the  so-called  Petrarch’s 
house  at  Arqua  (67)  can  only  be  built  on  the  site  of  the 
real  one — it  can’t  be  of  Petrarch’s  time  ;  but  the  tomb  is 
true,  and  just  looking  from  that,  to  the  building  of  Diir- 
er’s  house.  (70) — which  is  assuredly  authentic — and  of 
Bubens’s,  No.  81,  what  a  quantity  of  the  lives  of  the  men 
we  are  told  by  these  three  slight  sketches  !  One  of  the 
things  I  hope  to  do  at  Sheffield  is  to  get  a  connected  and 
systematic  series  of  drawings  of  the  houses  and  the 
tombs  of  great  men.  The  tombs,  of  course,  generally  tell 
more  of  their  successors  than  of  themselves  ;  but  the 
two  together  will  be  historical  more  than  many  volumes. 
Their  houses,  I  say  ;  yes,  and  the  things  they  saw  from 
their  houses — quite  the  chief  point  with  many  of  the  best 
men  and  women.  Casa  Guidi  windows,  often  of  much 
more  import  than  Casa  Guidi ;  and  in  this  house  of  Al¬ 
bert’s,  its  own  cross-timbers  are  little  matter,  but  those 
Nuremberg  walls  around  it  are  everything. 

73.  Kelso. 

I  now  gather  together,  as  I  best  may,  the  supplement¬ 
ary  drawings  which  have  come  in  since  I  arranged  my 
series,  and  one  or  two  others  which  did  not  properly  be¬ 
long  to  it.  This  one  of  Kelso  is  chiefly  valuable  as  show¬ 
ing  his  mode  of  elementary  study  with  washes  of  two 
tints — one  warm,  the  other  a  little  cooler.  The  system 
was  afterward  expanded  into  his  color  practice. 


266 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


74.  Entrance  to  North  Transept  of  Rouen. 

Unfinished,  and  extremely  interesting,  as  showing  his 
method  of  rubbing  in  the  tint  with  the  stump  or  his  fin¬ 
ger,  before  adding  the  pencil  lines. 

75.  Study  of  Dutch  Boats. 

These  boat  sketches  might  be  multiplied  countlessly 
— and  I  would  fain  have  given  many  and  talked  much  of 
them,  but  have  neither  room  nor  time.  Note  in  this  the 
careful  warping  of  the  mast  by  the  strain  of  the  heavy 
sail. 

76.  Neudersdorf.  ) 

77.  Gutenfels.  ) 

Two  lovely  Rhine  realities  ;  when  the  river  was  some¬ 
thing  better  than  a  steam -tramway. 

78.  An  Old  Rhine  Bridge,  at  Rheinfelden. 

A  favorite  Turner  subject,  and  drawn  and  engraved 
with  great  care  in  “  Modern  Painters.”  As  a  Prout,  it  is 
inferior — small  in  manner  and  forced,  but,  as  usual, 
wholly  true  to  the  place. 

79.  Munich. 

Notable  chiefly  for  the  effort  made  to  draw  the  atten¬ 
tion  away  from  the  ugly  arcade  under  the  houses  by  the 
crowd  of  near  figures.  Compare  the  insistance  on  beau¬ 
tiful  arcades  in  the  Como  and  Domo  d’Ossola. 

80.  Ypres. 

Wholly  lovely,  and  to  be  classed  with  the  Abbeville 
and  Evreux  as  one  of  the  most  precious  records  of  former 
domestic  architecture. 

81.  Rubens’s  House,  Antwerp. 

The  kind  of  domestic  architecture  that  destroyed  all 
reverence  for  what  preceded  it,  and  brought  us  down 
to — what  we  are. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


267 


Note  the  beginning  of  modern  anatomies  and  sciences 
and  pseudo-classicalisms  in  the  monstrous  skulls  of 
beasts. 

82.  Caen.  ) 

83.  Falaise.  ) 

Two  of  the  most  careful  and  finished  pieces  of  his 
later  work,  but  rather  architectural  studies  than  pictures, 
and  alas !  the  architecture  of  the  worst  school.  So  little 
can  the  taste  be  really  formed  without  study  of  sculpture 
as  the  queen  of  edifying  law.  See  notes  on  Supplement¬ 
ary  Sketches. 

86.  Portico  di  Ottavia,  Rome. 

All  the  life  and  death  of  Rome  is  in  this  quite  invalu¬ 
able  drawing ;  but  I  have  no  time  to  talk  of  the  life  and 
death  of  Rome,  and  perhaps  the  enlightened  modern 

student  would  onlv  care  for  a  view  of  the  new  tobacco 

•/ 

manufactory  under  the  Palatine. 

87.  Well  at  Strasburg. 

We  don’t  want  wells  neither,  in  these  days  of  wisdom, 
having  Thirlmere  turned  on  for  us,  or  Loch  Katrine,  at 
our  pleasure.  But — from  the  days  of  Jacob’s  well  till — 
thirty  years  ago,  such  things  were  pleasant  in  human 
eyes. 

88.  Well  at  Strasburg. 

I  close  our  Prout  pencilling  with  seven  examples  of  his 
superb  work  on  stone ;  all  by  his  own  hand,  and  as  liter¬ 
ally  and  thoroughly  his,  touch  for  touch,  as  the  pencil 
sketches  themselves,  and  even  more  wonderful  in  their 
easy  mastery  of  the  more  difficult  material. 

What  a  disgrace  it  is  to  modern  landscape  painters 
that  this  book  of  Prout’s,  “  Sketches  in  Flanders  and  Ger¬ 
many,”  should  remain,  to  this  day,  the  only  work  of  true 
artistic  value  produced,  that  is  to  say,  by  the  artist  s  own 
hand,  purchasable  by  the  public  of  Europe,  in  illustra¬ 
tion  of  their  national  architecture  ! 


268 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


89.  Well  at  Nuremberg. 

This  study  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  but  also  one 
of  the  most  imaginative,  that  ever  Prout  made — highly 
exceptional  and  curious. 

The  speciality  of  Nuremberg  is,  that  its  walls  are  of 
stone,  but  its  windows,  especially  those  in  the  roof,  for 
craning  up  merchandise — are  of  wood.  All  the  project¬ 
ing  windows  and  all  the  dormers  in  this  square  are  of 
wood.  But  Prout  could  not  stand  the  inconsistency,  and 
deliberately  petrifies  all  the  wood.  Very  naughty  of  him  ! 
I  have  nothing  to  say  in  extenuation  of  this  offence  ;  and, 
alas  !  secondly,  the  houses  have,  in  reality,  only  three 
stories,  and  he  has  put  a  fourth  on,  out  of  his  inner 
consciousness  ! 

I  never  knew  him  do  such  a  thing  before  or  since  ;  but 
the  end  of  it  is,  that  this  drawing  of  Nuremberg  is  im¬ 
mensely  more  Nurembergy  than  the  town  itself,  and  a 
quite  glorious  piece  of  mediaeval  character. 

90.  Ulm. 

91.  Prague. — Tower  of  the  Gate. 

92.  Prague. — Stadthaus. — The  realization  of  sketch  No. 

93.  Brunswick. — Bathhaus. 

94.  Coblentz. 

I  have  always  held  this  lithograph  to  show  all  Prout’s 
qualities  in  supreme  perfection,  and  proudly  finish  our 
series  of  pencil  and  chalk  work  with  it. 

We  now  come  to  a  large  series  of  early  color  studies, 
promising  better  things  than  ever  came  of  them  ;  and  then 
the  examples  of  Prout,  for  which  we  are  simply  to  blame 
the  public  taste  he  had  to  meet,  and  not  him.  There  were 
no  pre-Raphaelites  in  those  days.  On  the  walls  at  the 
Scala  Palace,  in  that  sketch  of  Verona,  No.  49,  Prout  has 
written,  conscientiously,  “  brick  ;  ”  but  do  you  think  if  he 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


269 


had  painted  it  of  brick,  anybody  would  have  bought  the 
drawing  ?  Since  those  days,  all  the  work  of  Walker,  of 
Boyce,  of  Alfred  Hunt,  of  Albert  Goodwin,  of  John  Brett 
(the  whole  school  of  them,  mind  you,  founded  first  on  the 
strong  pre-Raphaelite  veracities  which  were  all  but  shrieked 
down  at  the  first  seeing  of  them,  and  which  I  had  to  stand 
up  alone  for,  against  a  whole  national  clamor  of  critical 
vituperation),  all  that  affectionate  and  laborious  painting 
from  nature  has  familiarized  you,  now,  with  birds,  and 
ivy,  and  blossoms,  and  berries,  and  mosses,  and  rushes, 
and  ripples,  and  trickles,  and  wrinkles,  and  twinkles  ; 
and,  of  course,  poor  old  Prout’s  conventional  blue  wash 
won’t  look  its  best  afterward.  Be  thankful  to  them  (and 
somewhat  also — I  say  it  not  in  pride,  but  as  a  part  of  the 
facts — to  “Modern  Painters”  and  me),  and  indulgent  to 
the  old  workman,  who  did  the  best  he  could  for  his  cus¬ 
tomers,  and  the  most  he  could  for  his  money. 

95.  The  English  Cottage. — See  preface. 

96.  Launceston. 

Had  this  drawing  been  brought  to  me  as  an  early 
Turner,  I  should  have  looked  twice,  and  thrice,  at  it  be¬ 
fore  saying  no.  If  Prout  had  only  had  just  ever  so  little 
more  pride,  and  some  interest  in  British  history,  he  would 
have  been  a  painter,  indeed  !  and  no  mean  pencil  draughts¬ 
man.  But  he  just  missed  it — and  a  miss  is  as  bad  as  a 
mile,  or  a  million  of  miles  ;  and  I  say  nothing  more  of  the 
series  of  water-colors  here,  except  only  that  many  a  good 
lesson  may  be  learned  from  them  in  chiaroscuro,  and  in 
flat  tinting,  by  modest  students. 


270 


NOTES  ON  PROUT . 


SUPPLEMENTARY  DRAWINGS. 

There  are — or  ought  to  be,  if  I  get  them  together  in 
time — eleven  of  my  own,  namely  : 

104.  Calais. 

104a.  The  Aventine. 

105.  Ducal  Palace  and  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

106.  Ducal  Palace,  Foliage  of  Southwest  Angle. 

107.  Pillar  of  the  Piazzetta. 

108.  Chiaroscuro  Study  of  the  Same  Pillar. 

109.  The  Casa  d’Oro. 

110.  Window  on  the  Grand  Canal. 

111.  Abbeville  Crocket. 

112.  Oak-leaf. 

113.  Moss  and  Oxalis. 

I  meant,  when  first  this  exhibition  was  planned,  to  have 
made  it  completely  illustrative  of  the  French  flamboyant 
architecture,  which  Prout  had  chiefly  studied  ;  but  I  have 
been  too  much  interrupted  by  other  duties  ;  and  I  can 
only  now  point  out,  once  more — after  thirty  years  of  reit¬ 
erating  this  vital  fact  to  architects  in  vain — that  until 
they  are  themselves  absolute  masters  of  sculptural  sur¬ 
face,  founded  on  natural  forms,  they  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  any  good  work,  in  any  school. 


NOTES  ON  PROUT. 


271 


Sculptural  surface ,  observe  :  They  fancy  they  have 
chosen  an  ornament  when  they  have  got  its  outline  ;  but 
in  sculpture  the  surface  is  everything  ;  the  outline  follows, 
and  is  compelled  by  it.  Thus,  in  the  piece  of  Ducal  Palace 
sculpture,  No.  106,  the  entire  value  of  it  depends  on  the 
chiaroscuro  of  its  surfaces  ;  and  it  would  be  as  absurd  to 
think  of  sketching  it  without  shade,  as  a  piece  of  rippled 
lagoon.  And  in  every  minutest  finial  and  crocket  of  that 
French  flamboyant,  the  surfaces  are  studied  to  a  perfec¬ 
tion  not  less  subtle,  though  relieved  by  more  violent 
shade.  The  fast  study,  No.  Ill,  shows  the  action  of  the 
curved  stems  and  flow  of  surfaces  in  one  of  the  crockets 
of  Abbeville.  See  photograph  No.  6,  and  the  study  of 
oak-leaves,  No.  112,  will  show  how  the  natural  forms  of 
vegetation  lend  themselves  to  every  need  of  such  atten¬ 
tive  design.  I  have  painted  this  bit  of  leafage  in  two 
stages,  showing — if  anyone  cares  to  know  it — the  way 
Hunt  used  his  body  color  ;  laying  it  first  with  extreme 
care  in  form  and  gradation,  but  in  pure  white  ;  and  then 
glazing  over  it — never  disturbing  it,  or  mixing  it  in  the 
slightest  degree  with  his  clear  color.  And  it  is  only  by 
this  management  of  opaque  color  that  architectural  detail 
can  be  drawn  at  speed,  with  any  useful  result.  See  the 
bit  of  honeysuckle  ornament,  for  instance,  at  the  top  of 
the  pillar  in  No.  108,  and  fancy  the  time  it  would  have 
taken  to  express  the  bossy  roundness  of  it  in  any  other 
way.  All  disputes  about  the  use  of  body  color,  begin 
and  end  in  the  “to  be  or  not  to  be ”  of  accurate  form. 

Then  there  are  three  drawings  of  St.  Mark’s  mosaics 
by  Mr.  Rooke  : 

114.  Floral  Decoration. 

115.  Madonna  and  David. 

116.  The  Prophets. 


Then  some  variously  illustrated  photographs,  etc. 


272 


NOTES  ON  PllOUT. 


117.  Abbeville. 

118.  Picture  of  Abbeville. 

106a.  Venice,  the  Piazzetta. 

11.  Lithograph  of  Modern  Strasburg. 

119.  (?)  Improvements  in  Modern  London. 

Then,  in  the  glass  case,  there  is  a  little  bit  of  real  Vene¬ 
tian  sixteenth  century  silk- work — put  there  to  show  pre¬ 
cisely  what  Shakespeare  meant  by  “  Valance  of  Venice  gold 
in  needlework  ”  (“  Taming  of  the  Shrew  ” );  and  secondly, 
to  show  the  use  of  minute  points  of  color — no  less  than  of 
form  in  decoration  carried  on  ;  and  finally,  there  is  the 
Meissonier,  above  referred  to,  Napoleon,  in  1814,  on  the 
Chaussee  of  Vitry,  just  after  the  battle  of  Arcis-sur-Aube. 

“  The  French  horsemen,  though  inferior  to  none  in  the 
world  for  audacity  and  prowess,  were  overmatched  by 
their  opponents  and  driven  back  to  the  bridge  of  Arcis. 
Napoleon,  who  was  on  the  other  side,  instantly  rode  for¬ 
ward  to  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  already  all  but  choked 
up  with  fugitives,  and  drawing  his  sword,  exclaimed, 
‘  Let  me  see  which  of  you  will  pass  before  me  !  *  These 
words  arrested  the  flight,  and  the  division  Friant  travers¬ 
ing  the  streets  of  Arcis,  in  double-quick  time  passed  the 
bridge,  formed  on  either  side  of  its  other  extremity,  and 
by  their  heavy  fire  drove  back  the  allied  horse. 

*  %  *  *  *  %  * 

“  Napoleon  was  repeatedly  in  imminent  danger,  nearly 
all  his  staff  were  killed  or  wounded.  ‘  Fear  nothing/ 
said  he,  to  the  generals  who  urged  him  to  retire  :  ‘  the 
bullet  is  not  yet  cast  which  is  to  kill  me.’  He  seemed  to 
court  rather  than  fear  death,  his  air  was  resolute  but  som¬ 
bre,  and  as  long  as  the  battle  raged,  by  the  light  of  the 


NOTES  ON  PE  OUT. 


273 


burning  houses  behind  and  tli o  flash  of  the  enemies’  guns 
in  front,  he  continued  to  face  the  hostile  batteries. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

“On  leaving  Arcis,  instead  of  taking  the  road  to  Chalons 
or  to  Paris,  he  moved  on  the  Chaussee  of  Vitry,  direct 
toward  the  lihine.  His  letter  to  the  Empress  Marie 
Louise  was  in  these  terms  : 

“  ‘  My  love>  1  have  been  for  some  days  constantly  on 
horseback  ;  on  the  20th  I  took  Arcls-sur-Aube.  The 
enemy  attacked  me  there  at  eight  in  the  evening.  J 
beat  him  the  same  evening.  I  took  two  guns  and  retook 
two.  The  next  day  the  enemy’s  army  put  itself  in  array 
to  protect  the  march  of  its  columns  on  Bar-sur-Aube, 
and  I  resolved  to  approach  the  Marne  and  its  environs. 
This  evening  I  shall  beat  St.  Dizier.  Farewell,  my  love. 

Embrace  my  son.’”  (See  “Alison,”  vol.  x.,  pp.  396  to 
406.) 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more  perfect  example  of 
the  French  realistic  school  than  this  picture.  It  is,  of 
couise,  conventional,  and  founded  on  photographic  effect 
—the  white  horse  in  reality  would  have  looked  like  a 
ghost  in  the  twilight,  and  not  one  of  the  details  of  the 
housings  been  in  the  least  visible — had  these  been  so, 
much  more  should  the  details  of  the  landscape  have  been. 
But  in  its  kind  it  is  without  rivalship,  and  I  purpose  that 
it  shall  remain  in  St.  George’s  schools — for  a  monument 
of  War-sorrow,  where  War  has  been  unjust. 

18 


II. -HUNT. 


142.  The  Buttekfly. 

Before  saying  anything  more  of  the  Hunt  series,  I  want 
my  readers  once  more  clearly  to  understand  what  I  have 
brought  it  here  for  ;  namely,  to  show  them  what  real 
painting  is,  as  such,  wholly  without  inquiry  concerning  its 
sentiment  or  story.  The  Prouts  are  here  for  an  exactly 
opposite  reason — not  at  all  to  show  you  what  mere  pencil¬ 
ling  is,  as  such — but  what  it  can  pencil  for  us  of  European 
scenery  and  history.  Whereas  this  butterfly  is  here,  not 
at  all  to  teach  you  anything  you  didn’t  know  about  but¬ 
terflies  ;  nor  the  peach  and  grapes  to  teach  you  anything 
you  didn’t  know  about  those  familiar  fruits  ;  nor  even  that 
boy  in  his  father’s  boots  to  teach  you  anything  you  didn’t 
know  before  about  boys  and  boots.  They  are  here  merely 
to  show  you  what  is  meant  by  Painting,  as  distinguished 
from  daubing,  from  plastering,  from  rough  casting,  from 
chromo- tinting,  from  tray-varnishing,  from  paper- staining, 
and  in  general  from  the  sort  of  things  that  people  in  gen¬ 
eral  do  when  you  put  a  brush  into  their  hands,  and  a  pot 
within  reach  of  them. 

Now,  that  little  brown-red  butterfly  (which  Mr.  Gurney 
is  so  fortunate  in  possessing)  is  a  piece  of  real  painting  ; 
and  it  is  as  good  as  Titian  or  anybody  else  ever  did.  And 
if  you  can  enjoy  it  you  can  enjoy  Titian  and  all  other 
good  painters  ;  and  if  you  can’t  see  anything  in  it,  you 
can’t  see  anything  in  them,  and  it  is  all  affectation  and 
pretence  to  say  that  you  care  about  them. 

And  with  this  butterfly,  in  the  drawing  I  put  first, 
please  look  at  the  mug  and  loaf  in  the  one  I  have  put  last, 
of  the  Hunt  Series,  No.  171,  The  whole  art  of  painting 


NOTES  ON  HUNT . 


275 


is  in  that  mug — as  the  fisherman's  genius  was  in  the  bot¬ 
tle.  If  you  can  feel  how  beautiful  it  is,  how  ethereal,  how 
heathery  and  heavenly,  as  well  as  to  the  uttermost,  muggy : 
you  have  an  eye  for  color,  and  can  enjoy  heather,  heaven, 
and  everything  else  below  and  above.  If  not,  you  must 
enjoy  what  you  can,  contentedly,  but  it  won’t  be  paint¬ 
ing  ;  and  in  mugs  it  will  be  more  the  beer  than  the 
crockery  ;  and  on  the  moors,  rather  grouse  than  heather. 

Going  back  to  No.  142,  you  will  perhaps  ask  me  why 
the  poppy  is  so  poor  and  the  butterfly  so  rich  ?  Mainly 
because  the  poppy  withered  and  the  butterfly  was  pinned 
and  permanent.  But  there  are  other  reasons,  of  which 
more  presently. 

144.  Herring  and  Pilchard. 

Supreme  painting  again,  and  done  with  his  best  pains  ; 
for  these  two  subjects,  and 

146.  Dead  Chicken 

Were  done  by  the  old  man,  in  all  kindness  and  care,  at 
my  own  request,  for  me  to  give  as  types  of  work  to  coun¬ 
try  schools  of  Art.  Yet  no  kindness  or  care  could  alto¬ 
gether  enable  him  to  work  rightly  under  the  direction  of 
another  mind  ;  and  the  project  was  ultimately  given  up 
by  me,  the  chicken  finished  as  it  is,  having  been  one  of 
my  chief  disappointments.  And  here  anent,  let  me  enter 
into  some  general  account  of  the  tenor  of  his  drawings. 
They  may  be  broadly  divided  into  the  following  classes, 
into  one  or  other  of  which  every  work  of  importance  from 
his  hand  will  distinctly  fall. 

Class  1. 

Drawings  illustrative  of  rural  life  in  its  vivacity  and 
purity,  without  the  slightest  endeavor  at  idealization, 
and  still  less  with  any  wish  either  to  caricature,  or  deplore 
its  imperfections.  All  the  drawings  belonging  to  this 
class  are,  virtually,  faultless,  and  most  of  them  very  beau¬ 
tiful.  It  is,  I  am  glad  to  say,  thoroughly  represented  in 


NOTES  ON  nUNT. 


this  room,  which  contains  several  examples  of  the  highest 
quality,  namely,  121,  168,  171,  172,  173,  175. 

Besides  two  pieces  of  still  life  (169  and  the  interior, 
No.  174),  properly  belonging  to  the  group 

Class  2. 

Country  life,  with  endeavor  to  add  interest  to  it  by 
passing  sentiment. 

The  drawings  belonging  to  this  class  are  almost  always 
over-finished,  and  liable  to  many  faults.  There  are  three 
in  this  collection — 120,  165,  166. 

Class  3. 

Country  life,  with  some  expression  of  its  degradation, 
either  by  gluttony,  cowardice,  or  rudeness. 

The  drawings  of  this  class  are  usually  very  clever  and 
apt  to  be  very  popular  ;  but  they  are  on  the  whole  dis¬ 
honorable  to  the  artist.  There  are  five  examples  here, 
namely,  157,  158,  161,  163,  164. 

Class  4. 

Flower-pieces.  Fruit  is  often  included  in  these  ;  but 
they  form  a  quite  separate  class,  being  necessarily  less 
finished  drawings — the  flowers  sooner  changing  their 
form.  Including  the  fungi  among  these,  there  are  eight 
fine  ones  in  th,e  room,  148,  150,  149,  154,  152,  147,  151, 
156. 

Class  5. 

Fruit-pieces,  on  which  a  great  part  of  the  artist’s  repu¬ 
tation  very  securely  rests.  Five  first-rate  ones  are  here, 
and  several  of  interesting,  though  inferior,  quality. 

Class  6. 

Dead  animals.  Alas  !  if  he  could  but  have  painted 
living  ones,  instead  of  those  perpetual  bunches  of  grapes. 
But  it  could  not  be.  To  a  weakly,  sensitive,  nervous  tem¬ 
perament,  the  perpetual  changes  of  position,  and  perpet¬ 
ual  suggestions  of  new  beauty  in  an  animal,  are  entirely 


NOTES  ON  UUNT. 


277 


ruinous  ;  in  ten  minutes  they  put  one  in  a  fever.  Only 
the  very  greatest  portrait-painters— Sir  Joshua  and  Ve¬ 
lasquez — can  draw  animals  rightly. 

I  begin  with  this  last  class  and  reascend  to  the  high¬ 
est. 

138.  Dead  Hake  and  Game. 

A  most  notable  drawing  of  early  practice,  quite  won¬ 
derful  in  textures  of  fur  and  in  work  of  shadows,  but 
tentative,  and  in  many  points  failing. 

141.  Dead  Dove.  (A.) 

A  pure  water-color  drawing,  before  his  style  was  per¬ 
fectly  formed.  Full  of  interest,  but  too  conventional  and 
slight  in  background. 

139.  Dead  Dove.  (B.) 

Finished  work  of  central  time. 

145.  Dead  Dove.  (C.) 

Replica,  I  suppose,  of  B,  with  completer  background, 
and  of  highest  quality.  I  must  be  pardoned  for  saying 
so  of  my  own  drawing ;  but  of  course,  after  long  and  af¬ 
fectionate  relations  with  the  painter,  it  would  be  strange 
if  I  had  not  some  of  his  best  works. 

143.  Pine,  Melon,  and  Grapes. 

We  were  obliged  to  put  this  drawing  low  down,  for,  in 
spite  of  its  dark  background,  it  killed  everything  we  put 
near  it.  To  my  mind,  it  is  the  most  majestic  piece  of 
work  in  the  room.  The  grapes  are  of  the  Rubens  Vint¬ 
age,  and  the  shadows  have  the  darkness  of  Tintoret.  It 
is  wholly  free  from  any  pettiness  of  manner,  and  evidences 
spring  and  succulence  of  foliage  ;  it  is  as  if  the  strength 
of  nature  were  in  it,  rather  than  of  human  hand.  I  never 
saw  it  until  now,  and  have  learned  from  it  more  than  after 
my  fifty  years  of  labor  I  thought  anything  but  a  Vene¬ 
tian  picture  could  have  taught  me. 


278 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


132.  “Love  what  you  study,  study  what  you  love.” 

All  modern  painters  in  a  nutshell  of  a  sentence,  and  the 
painted  nutshell  perfect. — See  Preface. 

130.  Grapes. 

Consummate.  Can’t  be  better  anywhere. 

131.  Mr.  Sibeth’s  Quinces. 

All  that's  best  in  this  kind. 

125.  Bullaces. 

Very  fine,  but  conventional  in  background. 

129.  Grapes. 

Perfect  work,  but  wasted.  Why  he  did  so  many  grapes, 
and  scarcely  ever  sloes,  or  finely  russet  apples,  or  growing 
strawberries,  always  mystified  me. 

126.  Plums. 

Finest  work,  but  a  little  dull.  My  own  favorites  of 
his  plums  were  such  variegated  ones  as  133  and  135  ;  but 
I  somehow  never  got  any.  This  drawing,  however,  was 
the  one  of  which  Hunt  said  to  me  innocently — seeing  it 
again  after  some  ten  years — “It's  very  nice  ;  isn’t  it? ” 

128.  Plums. 

The  bit  of  oak-leaf  here  is  very  wonderful,  and  inter¬ 
esting  as  an  example,  and  what  Hunt  meant  by  saying  to 
me  once,  “  I  like  to  see  things  ‘  Fudged  ’  out.”  It  is  to 
be  remembered,  however,  that  this  was  his  own  special 
liking  ;  and  it  must  not  be  followed  by  the  general  stu¬ 
dent.  The  finest  forms  of  anything  cannot  be  “fudged” 
out,  but  must  be  drawn,  if  possible,  with  the  first  line,  at 
least  with  the  last  one,  for  ever. 

149.  Dr.  Drage’s  Fungi. 

A  perfect  gem  ;  “  Venetian  red  ”  in  its  best  earthly 
splendor  ;  it  could  only  be  more  bright  in  clouds. 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


279 


147.  Me.  Fry's  Hawthorn. 

A  little  overworked,  but  very  glorious.  Soft  and 
scented,  I  think,  if  you  only  wait  a  little,  and  make-be¬ 
lieve  very  much. 

155.  (Mine.)  Hawthorn  and  Birds’  Nests. 

The  hawthorn  this  time  a  little  underworked,  but  very 
good  ;  and  nests  as  good  as  can  be. 

148.  Lilac.  (Mr.  Sibeth’s.) 

Fine,  but  curiously  redundant.  The  upper  branch 
by  itself,  or  the  lower  with  only  the  laburnum,  or  both 
together  without  the  third,  would  have  been  beautiful ; 
but  two’s  company,  and  three’s  none. 

150.  Vase  with  Bose  and  Basket  with  Fruit.  } 

151.  Flowers  and  Fruit.  ) 

Two  resplendent  ones  ;  everything  that  he  could  do 
best  in  this  kind — absolutely  right  in  color,  absolutely 
in  light  and  shade,  and  without  any  rivalship  in  past  or 
present  art. 

162.  The  Gamekeeper. 

Early  study.  Please  observe  that  Hunt  learned  his 
business,  not  in  spots  but  in  lines.  Compare  the  en¬ 
tirely  magnificent  sketch  of  the  river-side,  No.  124,  which 
is  as  powerful  in  lines  as  Rembrandt,  and  the  St.  Mar¬ 
tin’s  Church,  No.  123,  which  is  like  a  bit  of  Hogarth. 

157.  The  Invalid. 

Full  of  humor  ;  but  there  is  no  place  for  humor  in 
true  painting.  So  also  the  Wasp,  No.  163.  If  I  could 
have  the  currant-pie  without  the  boy,  I  should  be  content. 

161.  Gypsies. 

Very  powerful ;  historic  in  its  kind. 

166.  Praying  Boy.  (Mr.  Quilter’s.) 


280 


NOTES  ON  HUNT. 


Over-finished,  as  its  companion,  No.  165,  an  endeavor 
at  doing  what  he  did  not  understand.  So  also  the  large 
study  of  himself,  No.  176,  with  the  Mulatto,  No.  122, 
and  Wanderer,  No.  120.  His  mode  of  work  was  entirely 
unfitted  for  full  life-size. 

121.  Mr.  Qitilter’s  Stable-boy. 

Mr.  Orrock’s  Shy  Sitter,  and  The  Blessing. 

On  the  contrary,  he  is  here  again  in  his  utmost 
strength — and  in  qualities  of  essential  painting— uncon¬ 
querable.  In  the  pure  faculty  of  painter’s  art — in  what 
Correggio,  and  Tintoret,  and  Velasquez,  and  Kubens, 
and  Rembrandt,  meant  by  painting — that  single  bunch 
of  old  horse-collars  is  worth  all  Meissonier’s  horse-bridles 
— boots,  breeches,  epaulettes,  and  stars  together. 

The  other  drawings  of  the  highest  class  need  no  com¬ 
mentary.  There  is  not  much  in  the  two  little  candle¬ 
lights,  Nos.  168,  175,  but  all  that  is,  of  the  finest,  and 
the  three  drawings  with  which  I  close  our  series,  “  The 
Shy  Sitter,"  No.  172,  “  The  Fisherman’s  Boy,"  No.  173, 
and  “  The  Blessing,"  No.  171,  things  that  the  old  painter 
was  himself  unspeakably  blessed  in  having  power  to  do. 
The  strength  of  all  lovely  human  life  is  in  them  ;  and 
England  herself  lives  only,  at  this  hour,  in  so  much  as, 
from  all  that  is  sunk  in  the  luxury — sick  in  the  penury — 
and  polluted  in  the  sin  of  her  great  cities,  Heaven  has 
yet  hidden  for  her,  old  men  and  children  such  as  these, 
by  their  fifties  in  her  fields  and  on  her  shores,  and  fed 
them  with  Bread  and  Water. 


APPENDICES. 


APPENDIX  L 

Every  human  action  gains  in  honor,  in  grace,  in  all  true  magnifi¬ 
cence,  by  its  regard  to  things  that  are  to  come.  It  is  the  far  sight,  the 
quiet  and  confident  patience,  that,  above  all  other  attributes,  separate 
man  from  man,  and  near  him  to  his  Maker  ;  and  there  is  no  action  nor 
art  whose  majesty  we  may  not  measure  by  this  test.  Therefore,  when 
we  build,  let  us  think  that  we  build  for  ever.  Let  it  not  be  for 
present  delight,  nor  for  present  use  alone  ;  let  it  be  such  work  as  our 
descendants  will  thank  us  for,  and  let  us  think,  as  we  lay  stone  on 
stone,  that  a  time  is  to  come  when  those  stones  will  be  held  sacred  be¬ 
cause  our  hands  have  touched  them,  and  that  men  will  say,  as  they  look 
upon  the  labor  and  wrought  substance  of  them,  “  See  !  this  our  fathers 
did  for  us.”  For,  indeed,  the  greatest  glory  of  a  building  is  not  in  its 
stones,  nor  in  its  gold.  Its  glory  is  in  its  Age,  and  in  that  deep  sense 
of  voicefulness,  of  stern  watching,  of  mysterious  sympathy,  nay,  even 
of  approval  or  condemnation,  which  we  feel  in  walls  that  have  long 
been  washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  humanity.  It  is  in  their  lasting 
witness  against  men,  in  their  quiet  contrast  with  the  transitional  char- 
|  acter  of  all  things,  in  the  strength  which,  through  the  lapse  of  seasons 
and  times,  and  the  decline  and  birth  of  dynasties,  and  the  changing  of 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  limits  of  the  sea,  maintains  its  sculp¬ 
tured  shapeliness  for  a  time  insuperable,  connects  forgotten  and  follow¬ 
ing  ages  with  each  other,  and  half  constitutes  the  identity,  as  it  concen¬ 
trates  the  sympathy,  of  nations  ;  it  is  in  that  golden  stain  of  time,  that 
we  are  to  look  for  the  real  light,  and  color,  and  preciousness  of  archi¬ 
tecture  ;  and  it  is  not  until  a  building  has  assumed  this  character,  till 
it  has  been  intrusted  with  the  fame,  and  hallowed  by  the  deeds  of  men, 
fill  its  walls  have  been  witnesses  of  suffering,  and  its  pillars  rise  out  of 
die  shadows  of  death,  that  itsexistence,  more  lasting  as  it  is  than  that  of 
he  natural  objects  of  the  world  around  it,  can  be  gifted  with  even  so 
nuch  as  these  possess,  of  language  and  of  life. — <k  The  Seven  Lamps 
j)f  Architecture,”  pp.  172,  173. 

But  so  far  as  it  can  be  rendered  consistent  with  the  inherent  charao- 


282 


APPENDICES. 


ter,  the  picturesque  or  extraneous  sublimity  of  architecture  has  just  this 
of  nobler  function  in  it  than  that  of  any  other  object  whatsoever,  that 
it  is  an  exponent  of  age,  of  that  in  which,  as  has  been  said,  the  greatest 
glory  of  the  building  consists  ;  and  therefore,  the  external  signs  of  this 
glory,  having  power  and  purpose  greater  than  any  belonging  to  their 
mere  sensible  beauty,  may  be  considered  as  taking  rank  among  pure 
and  essential  characters ;  so  essential  to  my  mind,  that  I  think  a  build¬ 
ing  cannot  be  considered  as  in  its  prime  until  four  or  five  centuries  have 
passed  over  it ;  and  that  the  entire  choice  and  arrangement  of  its  details 
should  have  reference  to  their  appearance  after  that  period,  so  that 
none  should  be  admitted  which  would  suffer  material  injury  either  by 
the  weather-staining,  or  the  mechanical  degradation  which  the  lapse  of 
such  a  period  would  necessitate. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  enter  into  any  of  the  questions  which  the 
application  of  this  principle  involves.  They  are  of  too  great  interest 
and  complexity  to  be  even  touched  upon  within  my  present  limits,  but 
this  is  broadly  to  be  noticed,  that  those  styles  of  architecture  which  are 
picturesque  in  the  sense  above  explained  with  respect  to  sculpture,  that 
is  to  say,  whose  decoration  depends  on  the  arrangement  of  points  of 
shade  rather  than  on  purity  of  outline,  do  not  suffer,  but  commonly 
gain  in  richness  of  effect  when  their  details  are  partly  worn  away  ; 
hence  such  styles,  pre-eminently  that  of  French  Gothic,  should  always 
be  adopted  when  the  materials  to  be  employed  are  liable  to  degradation, 
as  brick,  sandstone,  or  soft  limestone ;  and  styles  in  any  degree  depen¬ 
dent  on  purity  of  line,  as  the  Italian  Gothic,  must  be  practised  alto¬ 
gether  in  hard  and  undecomposing  materials — granite,  serpentine,  or 
ci-ystalline  marbles.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  nature  of  the 
accessible  materials  influenced  the  formation  of  both  styles ;  and  it 
should  still  more  authoritatively  determine  our  choice  of  either. — Ibid., 
pp.  179,  180. 


APPENDIX  II. 

Tiie  essence  of  picturesque  character  has  been  already  defined  to  be 
a  sublimity  not  inherent  in  the  nature  of  the  thing,  but  caused  by 
something  external  to  it ;  as  the  ruggedness  of  a  cottage-roof  possesses 
something  of  a  mountain  aspect,  not  belonging  to  the  cottage  as  such. 
And  this  sublimity  may  be  either  in  mere  external  ruggedness,  and 
other  visible  character,  or  it  may  lie  deeper,  in  an  expression  of  sorrow 
and  old  age,  attributes  which  are  both  sublime  ;  not  a  dominant  expres¬ 
sion,  but  one  mingled  with  such  familiar  and  common  characters  as 
prevent  the  object  from  becoming  perfectly  pathetic  in  its  sorrow,  or 
perfectly  venerable  in  its  age. 

For  instance,  I  cannot  find  words  to  express  the  intense  pleasure  I 


APPENDICES. 


2S3 


have  always  in  first  finding  myself,  after  some  prolonged  stay  in  Eng¬ 
land,  at  the  foot  of  the  old  tower  of  Calais  church.  The  large  neglect, 
the  noble  unsightliness  of  it ;  the  record  of  its  years  written  so  visibly, 
yet  without  sign  of  weakness  or  decay  ;  its  stern  wasteness  and  gloom, 
eaten  away  by  the  Channel  winds,  and  overgrown  with  the  bitter  sea 
grasses  ;  its  slates  and  tiles  all  shaken  and  rent,  and  yet  not  falling  ;  its 
desert  of  brickwork,  full  of  bolts,  and  holes,  and  ugly  fissures,  and  yet 
strong,  like  a  bare  brown  rock  ;  its  carelessness  of  what  any  one  thinks 
or  feels  about  it,  putting  forth  no  claim,  having  no  beauty  nor  desirable¬ 
ness,  pride  nor  grace  ;  yet  neither  asking  for  pity  ;  not  as  ruins  are,  use¬ 
less  and  piteous,  feebly  or  fondly  garrulous  of  better  days  ;  but  useful 
still,  going  through  its  own  daily  work,— as  some  old  fisherman  beaten 
gray  by  storm,  yet  drawing  his  daily  nets :  so  it  stands,  with  no  com¬ 
plaint  about  its  past  youth,  in  blanched  and  meagre  massiveness  and 
serviceableness,  gathering  human  souls  together  underneath  it;  the 
sound  of  its  bells  for  prayer  still  rolling  through  its  rents  ;  and  the  gray 
peak  of  it  seen  far  across  the  sea,  principal  of  the  three  that  rise  above 
the  waste  of  surfy  sand  and  hillocked  shore, — the  lighthouse  for  life, 
and  the  belfry  for  labor,  and  this  for  patience  and  praise. 

I  cannot  tell  the  half  of  the  strange  pleasures  and  thoughts  that  come 
about  me  at  the  sight  of  that  old  tower ;  for,  in  some  sort,  it  is  the  epit¬ 
ome  of  all  that  makes  the  Continent  of  Europe  interesting,  as  opposed 
to  new  countries  ;  and,  above  all,  it  completely  expresses  that  agedness 
in  the  midst  of  active  life  which  binds  the  old  and  the  new  into  har¬ 
mony.  We,  in  England,  have  our  new  street,  our  new  inn,  our  green 
shaven  lawn,  and  our  piece  of  ruin  emergent  from  it — a  mere  specimen 
of  the  middle  ages  put  on  a  bit  of  velvet  carpet  to  be  shown,  which,  but 
for  its  size,  might  as  well  be  on  a  museum  shelf  at  once,  under  cover. 
But,  on  the  Continent,  the  links  are  unbroken  between  the  past  and 
present,  and  in  such  use  as  they  can  serve  for,  the  gray-lieaded  wrecks 
are  suffered  to  stay  with  men  ;  while  in  unbroken  line,  the  generations 
of  spared  buildings  are  seen  succeeding  each  in  its  place.  And  thus  in 
its  largeness,  in  its  permitted  evidence  of  slow  decline,  in  its  poverty, 
in  its  absence  of  all  pretence,  of  all  show  and  care  for  outside  aspect, 
that  Calais  tower  has  an  infinite  of  symbolism  in  it,  all  the  more  striking 
because  usually  seen  in  contrast  with  English  scenes  expressive  of  feel¬ 
ings  the  exact  reverse  of  these.  —  “  Modern  Painters,”  vol.  iv. ,  pp.  2,  3. 


APPENDIX  III. 

And,  in  some  sort,  the  hunter  of  the  picturesque  is  better  than  many 
other  pleasure-seekers  ;  inasmuch  as  he  is  simple-minded,  and  capable 
of  unostentatious  and  economical  delights,  which,  if  not  very  helpful 


284 


APPENDICES. 


to  other  people,  are  at  all  events  utterly  uninjurious,  even  to  the  vic¬ 
tims  or  subjects  of  his  picturesque  fancies ;  while  to  many  others  his 
work  is  entertaining  and  useful.  And,  more  than  all  this,  even  that 
delight  which  he  seems  to  take  in  misery  is  not  altogether  unvirtuous. 
Through  all  his  enjoyment  there  runs  a  certain  undercurrent  of  tragical 
passion — a  real  vein  of  human  sympathy  ; — it  lies  at  the  root  of  all 
those  strange  morbid  hauntings  of  his ;  a  sad  excitement,  such  as  other 
people  feel  at  a  tragedy,  only  less  in  degree,  just  enough,  indeed,  to 
give  a  deeper  tone  to  his  pleasure,  and  to  make  him  choose  for  his  sub¬ 
ject  the  broken  stones  of  a  cottage  wall  rather  than  of  a  roadside  bank, 
the  picturesque  beauty  of  form  in  each  being  supposed  precisely  the 
same ;  and,  together  with  this  slight  tragical  feeling,  there  is  also  a 
humble  and  romantic  sympathy,  a  vague  desire,  in  his  own  mind,  to 
live  in  cottages  rather  than  in  palaces  ;  a  joy  in  humble  things,  a  con¬ 
tentment  and  delight  in  makeshifts,  a  secret  persuasion  (in  many  re¬ 
spects  a  true  one)  that  there  is  in  these  ruined  cottages  a  happiness  often 
quite  as  great  as  in  kings’  palaces,  and  a  virtue  and  nearness  to  God 
infinitely  greater  and  holier  than  can  commonly  be  found  in  any  other 
kind  of  place  ;  so  that  the  misery  in  which  he  exults  is  not,  as  he  sees 
it,  misery,  but  nobleness — “  poor  and  sick  in  body,  and  beloved  by  the 
Gods.”  And  thus,  being  nowise  sure  that  these  things  can  be  mended 
at  all,  and  very  sure  that  he  knovrs  not  how  to  mend  them,  and  also 
that  the  strange  pleasure  he  feels  in  them  must  have  some  good  reason 
in  the  nature  of  things,  he  yields  to  his  destiny,  enjoys  his  dark  canal 
without  scruple,  and  mourns  over  every  improvement  in  the  town,  and 
every  movement  made  by  its  sanitary  commissioners,  as  a  miser  would 
over  a  planned  robbery  of  his  chest ;  in  all  this  being  not  only  innocent, 
but  even  respectable  and  admirable,  compared  with  the  kind  of  person 
who  has  no  pleasure  in  sights  of  this  kind,  but  only  in  fair  facades,  trim 
gardens,  and  park  palings,  and  who  would  thrust  all  poverty  and  mis¬ 
ery  out  of  his  way,  collecting  it  into  back  alleys,  or  sweeping  it  finally 
out  of  the  world,  so  that  the  street  might  give  wider  play  for  his  char¬ 
iot  wheels,  and  the  breeze  less  offence  to  his  nobility. — “  Modern  Paint¬ 
ers,”  vol.  iv.,  pp.  11,  12. 


APPENDIX  IV. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  you  are  greatly  startled  at  my  saying  that  greater 
pleasure  is  to  be  received  from  inferior  Art  than  from  the  finest.  But 
what  do  you  suppose  makes  all  men  look  back  to  the  time  of  childhood 
with  so  much  regret  (if  their  childhood  has  been,  in  any  moderate 
degree,  healthy  or  peaceful)  ?  That  rich  charm,  which  the  least  pos¬ 
session  had  for  us,  was  in  consequence  of  the  poorness  of  our  treasures. 


APPENDICES. 


285 


That  miraculous  aspect  of  the  nature  around  us  was  because  we  had 
seen  little  and  knew  less.  Every  increased  possession  loads  us  with 
new  weariness  ;  every  piece  of  new  knowledge  diminishes  the  faculty 
of  admiration  ;  and  Death  is  at  last  appointed  to  take  us  from  a  scene 
in  which,  if  we  were  to  stay  longer,  no  gift  could  satisfy  us,  and  no 
miracle  surprise.  .  .  . 

In  your  educational  series  is  a  lithograph  drawing,  by  Prout,  of  an 
old  house  in  Strasbourg.  The  carvings  of  its  woodwork  are  in  a  style 
altogether  provincial,  yet  of  which  the  origin  is  very  distant.  The 
delicate  Renaissance  architecture  of  Italy  was  affected,  even  in  its  finest 
periods,  by  a  tendency  to  throw  out  convex  masses  at  the  bases  of  its 
pillars  ;  the  wood-carvers  of  the  sixteenth  century  adopted  this  bulged 
form  as  their  first  element  of  ornamentation,  and  these  windows  of 
Strasbourg  are  only  imitations  by  the  German  peasantry  of  what,  in  its 
finest  type,  you  must  seek  as  far  away  as  the  Duomo  of  Bergamo. 

But  the  burgher,  or  peasant,  of  Alsace  enjoyed  his  rude  imitation, 
adapted,  as  it  was,  boldly  and  frankly  to  the  size  of  his  house  and  the 
grain  of  the  larch  logs  of  which  he  built,  infinitely  more  than  the  re¬ 
fined  Italian  enjoyed  the  floral  luxuriance  of  his  marble  ;  and  all  the 
treasures  of  a  great  exhibition  could  not  have  given  him  the  tenth  part 
of  the  exultation  with  which  he  saw  the  gable  of  his  roof  completed 
over  its  jutting  fret- work ;  and  wrote  among  the  rude  intricacies  of  its 
sculpture,  in  flourished  black  letter,  that  “He  and  his  wife  had  built 
their  house  with  God’s  help,  and  prayed  Him  to  let  them  live  long  in  it 
— they  and  their  children.” 

But  it  is  not  only  the  rustic  method  of  architecture  which  I  wish  you 
to  note  in  this  plate  ;  it  is  the  rustic  method  of  drawing  also.  The  manner 
in  which  these  blunt  timber-carvings  are  drawn  by  Prout  is  just  as  pro¬ 
vincial  as  the  carvings  themselves.  Born  in  a  far-away  district  in  Eng¬ 
land,  and  learning  to  draw,  unlielped,  with  fishing-boats  for  his  models  ; 
making  his  way  instinctively  until  he  had  command  of  his  pencil  enough 
to  secure  a  small  income  by  lithographic  drawing  ;  and  finding  pictu¬ 
resque  character  in  buildings  from  which  all  the  finest  lines  of  their 
carving  had  been  effaced  by  time ;  possessing  also  an  instinct  in  the 
expression  of  such  subjects  so  peculiar  as  to  win  for  him  a  satisfying 
popularity,  and  far  better,  to  enable  him  to  derive  perpetual  pleasure 
in  the  seclusion  of  country  hamlets,  and  the  quiet  streets  of  deserted 
cities.  Prout  had  never  any  motive  to  acquaint  himself  with  the  re¬ 
finements,  or  contend  with  the  difficulties  of  a  more  accomplished  art. 
So  far  from  this,  his  manner  of  work  was,  by  its  very  imperfection,  in 
the  most  perfect  sympathy  with  the  subjects  he  enjoyed.  The  broad 
chalk  touches  in  which  he  has  represented  to  us  this  house  at  Stras¬ 
bourg  are  entirelv  sufficient  to  give  true  idea  of  its  effect.  To  liav  e 
drawn  its  ornaments  with  the  subtlety  of  Leonardesque  delineation 
would  only  have  exposed  their  faults  and  mocked  their  rusticity,  a  he 


286 


APPENDICES. 


drawing  would  have  become  painful  to  you  from  the  sense  of  the  time 
which  it  had  taken  to  represent  what  was  not  worth  the  labor,  and  to 
direct  your  attention  to  what  could  only,  if  closely  examined,  be  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  offence.  But  here  you  have  a  simple  and  provincial  draughtsman 
happily  and  adequately  expressing  a  simple  and  provincial  architecture; 
nor  could  builder  or  painter  have  become  wiser,  but  to  their  loss. — 
“Works  of  John  Ruskin,”  vol.  iv.,  “Eagle’s  Nest,”  pp.  76,  77,  78, 
79,  80. 


CATALOGUE  OF  DEA  WINGS.  i 


PEOUT  LIST. 


1  Calais  Town,  . 

2  Calais  Old  Pier, 

3  Figure  Studies, 

4  Abbeville.  West  Front  of  S 

Wulfran, 

5  Abbeville.  Northwest  Tower 

of  S.  Wulfran, 

6  Abbeville.  Photo, 

7  Amiens,  . 

8  Dieppe.  Chapel  of  the  Holy 

Sepulchre,  . 

9  Evreux,  . 

10  Strasburg, 

11  Strasburg.  Litho, 

12  Lisieux,  . 

13  Lisieux.  Water-color  Drawing 

14  Bayeux,  .... 

15  Tours,  Shop  at, 

16  Rouen.  The  Tour  de  Beurre, 

17  Rouen.  Staircase,  Maelon, 

18  Ghent, 

19  Antwerp,  . 

20  Augsburgh, 

21  Brunswick, 

22  Dresden,  . 

23  Prague.  The  Bridge, 

24  Prague.  Stadt  Haus, 


Contributed  by 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 


<< 


Mr.  Ruskin 


u 


tt 


Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 


Mr.  Ruskin 

u 

a 

tt 

a 

Mr.  J.  C.  Ottway 
Mr.  Ruskin 

u 

tt 

tt 

tt 

tt 

Col.  T.  H.  Sale 
Mr.  James  Knowles 
Mr.  Ruskin 

6t 

Mr.  John  Simon 


i 


288 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


Contributed  by 


25  Bramburg,  . 

26  Nuremberg,  . 

27  Lahnstein,  . 

28  The  Drachenfels, 

29  Islands  of  the  Rhine, 

30  The  Pfalz,  . 

31  Worms,  . 

32  Worms.  Pencil, 

33  Four  Studies  of  Peasants  at 

Ratisbonne,  . 

34  An  Old  Water-mill,  . 

35  Ulm, . 

36  Ulm.  Water-color  Drawing,  . 

37  Swiss  Costumes, 

38  Old  Hulk,  .... 

39  Chillon,  . 

40  Chillon.  The  Dungeon,  . 

41  Montreux,  .  .  .  . 

42  Martigny.  The  Waterfall, 

43  Martigny.  Village,  . 

44  A  Castle, . 

45  Mayence, . 

46  Brieg, . 

47  Domo  d’Ossola, 

48  Como, . 

49  Verona, . 

50  Verona.  Water-color  Drawing, 

51  Verona.  Three  Pencil  Draw¬ 

ings,  . 

52  Ghent, . 

53  Sunrise, . 

54  Swiss  Village,  .... 

55  Place  of  St.  Mark’s,  Venice, 

56  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the 

West, . 

57  Venice.  Ducal  Palace  from  the 


Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 
Mr.  Ruskin 
Mr.  W.  H.  Urwick 
Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  G.  W.  Reid,  F.S.A 
Mr.  Ruskin 


<( 

Mr.  Alfred  Hunt 

Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  C.  S.  Whitmore 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

Fine  Art  Society 

Mr.  Ruskin 
<< 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

Mr.  A.  Hunt 

Mr.  C.  S.  Whitmore 

Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 

Mr.  Ruskin 
<( 

tt 

Mr.  J.  C.  Ottway 

Mr.  Ruskin 
Mr.  W.  J.  Stuart 
Mr.  W.  Scrivener 
Mr.  Ruskin 

(i 


tt 


East, 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


289 


58  S.  Michael’s  Mount,  Normandy, 

59  The  Grand  Canal,  Venice.  Near 

the  Rialto,  . 

GO  The  Doge’s  Palace,  Venice, 

61  Verona,  .... 

62  Sunset,  .... 

63  The  Grand  Canal,  Venice, 

64  The  Bridge  of  Sighs, 

65  Bologna.  San  Jacopo, 

66  Bologna.  The  Tower  of  Gail 

senda,  .... 

67  Arqua.  Petrarch’s  House, 

68  Arqua.  Petrarch’s  Tomb, 

69  Vauxhall, 

70  Nuremberg.  Diirer’s  House, 

71  Rome.  Coliseum,  . 

72  Rome.  Fountain  of  Egeria, 

73  Kelso,  .... 

74  Rouen,  .... 

75  Study  of  Dutch  Boats, 

76  Neudersdorf,  . 

77  Gutenfels, 

78  An  Old  Rhine  Bridge  at  Rheins 

felden,  .... 

79  Munich,  .... 

80  Ypres,  .... 

81  Rubens’  House,  Antwerp, 

82  Caen,  .... 

83  Falaise,  .... 

84  Old  Gateway  at  Monmouth, 

85  Old  Hulk, 

86  Portico  di  Ottavia,  Rome, 

87  Well  at  Strasburg,  . 

88  Well  at  Strasburg,  . 

89  Well  at  Nuremberg, 

90  Ulm,  .... 


Contributed  by 

Mr.  Ruskin 


n 


The  Right  Hon.  Lord 
Coleridge 
Mr.  J.  Rhodes 
Mr.  J.  C.  Scrivener 
Mr.  Ruskin 


<( 

<( 


a 


Mr.  S.  G.  Prout 


cc 


Mr.  H.  Moore 
Mr.  Ruskin 


tt 


Mr.  J.  W.  Gibbs 
Mr.  Ruskin 

ft 


tt 

tt 

if 

tt 

ft 

ft 

tt 

tt 


Mr.  A.  F.  Payne 
Mr.  Keeling 
Mr.  Duncan 
Mr.  Robinson 
Mr.  Ruskin 


« 

ft 


19 


290 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


Contributed  by 

91  Prague.  Tower  of  the  Gate,  Mr.  Ruskin 

92  Prague.  Stadthaus,  .  .  “ 

93  Brunswick.  Rathhaus,  .  “ 

94  Coblenz,  ....  “ 

95  English  Cottage,  .  .  .  “ 

96  Launceston,  .  .  .  Mr.  W.  Eastlake 

97  Wreck  of  an  East  Indiaman, .  Hon.  H.  Strutt 

98  Frankfort,  ....  Mr.  A.  T.  Hollingsworth 

99  Marine  View,  .  .  .  Mr.  Safe 

100  Verona,  ....  Mr.  J.  J.  Wigzell 

101  Interior  of  St.  Julien  at  Tours  Mr.  S.  Castle 

102  A  Bridge,  ....  Mr.  A.  F.  Payne 

103  View  of  a  Church,  .  .  Rev.  J.  Townsend 


HUNT  LIST. 


120  The  Wanderer, 

121  The  Eavesdropper, 

122  Head  of  a  Mulatto  Girl, 

123  St.  Martin’s  Church, 

124  Somerset  House,  . 

125  Bullaces,  . 

126  Plums,  . 

127  Black  Grapes  and  Straw¬ 

berries,  .  .  .  . 

128  Magnum  Bonum  Plums, 

129  Black  and  White  Grapes, 

130  Grapes,  .  .  .  . 

131  Quinces,  . 

132  “  Love  what  you  study,  study 

what  you  love,” 

133  Plums  and  Blackberries, 

134  Black  Grapes  and  Peach, 

135  Fruit,  .  .  .  .  . 

136  Black  and  White  Grapes, 


Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  W.  Quilter 
Mr.  F.  Wigan 
Mr.  Ellis 

Mr.  J.  C.  Robinson 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 

M 

U 

Mr.  W.  J.  Galloway 
Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 

Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  Ruskin 
Mr.  Alfred  Harris 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


291 


137  Grapes,  Casket,  and  Peaches, 

138  Hare  (dead), 

139  A  Pigeon,  .... 

140  Acorn,  . 

141  A  Pigeon,  .... 

142  Flowers  and  Fruit  with  But¬ 

terfly,  . 

143  Pine,  Melon,  and  Grapes, 

144  Herrings  and  Red  Mullet, 

145  A  Pigeon,  .... 

146  Dead  Chicken, 

147  A  Bird’s  Nest,  with  May-blos¬ 

som,  . 

148  Lilac  and  Bird’s  Nest,  . 

149  Fungi,  .... 

150  Vase  with  Rose,  and  Basket 

with  Fruit, 

151  Flowers  and  Fruit, 

152  Apple  Blossom, 

153  Dog-roses  and  Bird’s  Nest,  . 

154  Primrose  and  Bird’s  Nest, 

155  Birds’  Nests  and  May  Blos¬ 

som,  . 

156  Primrose,  . 

157  The  Invalid, 

158  Saturday  Morning, 

158a  “  Study  of  a  Head,” 

159  The  Pitcher  Girl, 

159aSketch  for  the  drawing  of  the 

Fly-catcher, 

160  Sketch  for  the  drawing  of  the 

Cricketer, 

161  The  Gipsies, 

162  The  Gamekeeper, 

163  Boy  startled  by  a  Wasp, 

164  A  Young  Artist, 

165  Prayer,  ,  .  .  , 


Contributed  by 

Mr.  A.  W.  Lyon 


u 


Mr.  W.  Quilter 
G.  Knight 
Mr.  Ruskin 

Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
A.  T.  Hollingsworth 
Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
Mr.  Ruskin 


<< 


Mr.  Fry 

Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 


Dr.  Drage 


Mr.  Edmund  Sibeth 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 
Mr.  R.  D.  Farnworth 
Mr.  Geo.  Gurney 

Mr.  Ruskin 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 
Mr.  S.  J.  Thacker 
Mr.  J.  J.  Wigzell 
Mr.  G.  Peck 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock. 

Mr.  H.  G.  Hine 

Mr.  Carl  Haag 
Mr.  W.  Quilter 

Mr.  John  Rhodes 
Mr.  George  Gurney 
Dr.  Prescott  Hewett 


292 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS. 


166  Devotion, 

167  Girl’s  Head, 

168  Boy  with  a  lighted  Candle, 

169  The  Blacksmith’s  Shop, 

170  By  the  Wayside,  . 

171  The  Blessing, 

172  The  Shy  Sitter,  . 

173  My  Father’s  Boots, 

174  An  Interior, 

175  Boy  with  Lantern, 

176  Portrait  of  Hunt  (painted  by 

himself), 

176*Grapes — Muscatel,  Peach,  and 
Spray  of  Raspberries, 

177  Portrait  of  Sami.  Prout,  by 

Wm.  Hunt, 

178  Portrait  of  Wm.  Hunt,  by 

himself,  .... 


Contributed  by 

Mr.  W.  Quilter 
Mr.  W.  J.  Galloway 
Mr.  W.  Beacall 
Mr.  W.  H.  Urwick 
Mr.  S.  J.  Thacker 
Mr.  Jas.  Orrock 

CC 

Mr.  John  Rhodes 
Mr.  Ruskin 
Mr.  J.  J.  Elliott 

Mr.  Sutton  Palmer 


Mr.  Haydon 
Mr.  Osier 


LIST  OF  CONTRIBUTORS  TO  THE  EXHIBITION. 


Beacall,  Mr.  W.  Palmer,  Mr.  Sutton. 

Brown,  Dr.  John.  Payne,  Mr.  A.  F. 

Coleridge,  The  Right  Hon.  Peck,  Mr.  G. 


Lord. 

Drage,  Dr. 

Duncan,  Mr.  E. 

Eastlake,  Mr.  W. 

Elliott,  Mr.  J.  J. 

Fry,  Mr. 

Galloway,  Mr.  W.  J. 
Gibbs,  Mr.  J.  W. 

Gordon,  The  Rev.  O. 
Gurney,  Mr.  Geo. 

Haag,  Mr.  Carl. 

Harris,  Mr.  Alfred. 
Hewett,  Mr.  Prescott. 
Hine,  Mr.  H.  G. 
Hollingsworth,  Mr.  A.  T. 
Howard-Keeling,  Mr.  H. 
Hunt,  Mr.  A. 

Knowles,  Mr.  James. 

Lyon,  Mr.  A.  W. 

Moore,  Mr.  H. 

Orrock,  Mr.  James. 
Ottway,  Mr.  J.  C. 


Prout,  Mr.  G. 

Quaile,  Mr.  E. 

Quilter,  Mr.  W. 

Reid,  Mr.  G.  W.,  F.S.A. 
Rhodes,  Mr.  John. 
Robinson,  Mr.  J.  C. 
Ruskin,  Mr. 

Sale,  Colonel. 

Safe,  Mr.  James  W. 
Scrivener,  Mr.  W.  C. 
Sibeth,  Mr.  Edmund. 
Strutt,  The  Hon.  Henry. 
Stuart,  Mr.  W.  J. 
Swinburne,  Sir  John. 
Thacker,  Mr.  S.  J. 

The  Fine  Art  Society. 
Townsend,  The  Rev.  W.  J. 
Urwick,  Mr.  W.  H. 

Wigan,  Mr.  F. 

Wigzell,  Mr.  J.  J. 
Whitmore,  Mrs.  C.  S. 
Willett,  Mr.  Henry. 


CATALOGUE 

OF  THE 

DRAWINGS  AND  SKETCHES 

BY 

J.  M.  W.  TUEI^EE,  E.A., 

AT  PRESENT  EXHIBITED  IN  TIIE  NATIONAL  GALLERY. 

REVISED,  AND  CAST  INTO  PROGRESSIVE  GROUPS,  WITH  EXPLANATORY 

NOTES, 

BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN, 

HONORARY  STUDENT  OF  OHRISTOHUBOH,  AND  HONORARY  FELLOW  OF  CORPUS  OHBISTI 

COLLEGE,  OXFORD. 


I 


I 


PREFACE. 


That  in  the  largest,  and,  I  suppose,  richest  city  of  the 
world,  the  most  delicate  and  precious  water-color  drawings 
which  its  citizens  possess  should  be  kept  in  a  cellar,  under  its 
National  Gallery,  in  which  two-thirds  of  them  are  practically 
invisible,  even  in  the  few  bright  days  which  London  smoke 
leaves  to  summer ;  and  in  which  all  are  exposed  to  irreparable 
injury  by  damp  in  winter,  is  a  fact  which  I  must  leave  the 
British  citizen  to  explain  :  stating  here  only  that  neither  Mr. 
Burton  nor  Mr.  Eastlake  are  to  be  held  responsible  for  such 
arrangement ;  but,  essentially,  the  public’s  scorn  of  all  art 
which  does  not  amuse  it ;  and,  practically,  the  members  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  whose  primary  duty  it  is  to  see  that  works 
by  men  who  have  belonged  to  their  body,  which  may  be  edu¬ 
cationally  useful  to  the  nation,  should  be  rightly  and  suffi¬ 
ciently  exhibited. 

I  have  had  no  heart  myself,  during  recent  illness,  to  finish 
the  catalogue  which,  for  my  own  poor  exoneration  from  the 
shame  of  the  matter,  I  began  last  year.  But  in  its  present 
form  it  may  be  of  some  use  in  the  coming  Christmas  holidays, 
and  relieve  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Oldham  from  unnecessary 
burden. 

The  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery  will  I  trust  forgive 
my  assumption  that,  some  day  or  other,  they  may  enable  their 
keeper  to  remedy  the  evils  in  the  existing  arrangement ;  if 
not  by  displacing  some  of  the  pictures  of  inferior  interest  in 
the  great  galleries,  at  least  by  adding  above  their  marble  pil¬ 
lars  and  vaulted  ceilings,  such  a  dry  and  skylighted  garret  as 


| 

I 


298 


PREFACE. 


any  photographic  establishment,  opening  a  new  branch,  would 
provide  itself  with  in  the  slack  of  the  season.  Such  a  room 
would  be  all  that  could  be  practically  desired  for  the  Turner 
drawings  ;  and  modern  English  indolence,  if  assisted  in  the 
gratification  of  its  languid  curiosity  by  a  lift,  would  not,  I 
trust,  feel  itself  aggrieved  by  the  otherwise  salutary  change. 


INTRODUCTORY  CLASSIFICATION. 


The  confused  succession  of  the  drawings  at  present  placed 
in  the  water-color  room  of  the  National  Gallery  was  a  conse¬ 
quence  of  their  selection  at  different  periods,  by  the  gradually 
extended  permission  of  the  Trustees,  from  the  mass  of  the  in¬ 
ferior  unexhibited  sketches  in  the  possession  of  the  nation. 
I  think  it  best,  in  this  catalogue,  to  place  the  whole  series  in 
an  order  which  might  conveniently  become  permanent,  should 
the  collection  be  eventually  transferred  to  rooms  with  suffi¬ 
cient  light  to  see  it  by  :  and  for  the  present  the  student  will 
find  no  difficulty,  nor  even  a  delay  of  any  consequence,  in  find¬ 
ing  the  title  of  any  drawing  by  reference  to  the  terminal 
index,  in  which,  by  the  number  in  the  existing  arrangement, 
he  is  referred  to  that  in  the  proposed  one,  followed  in  the 
text. 

The  collection  as  at  present  seen  consists  of  four  hundred 
drawings,  in  wooden  sliding  frames,  contained  in  portable 
cabinets  ;  and  of  about  half  that  number  grouped  in  fixed 
frames  originally  intended  for  exhibition  in  the  schools  of 
Kensington,  and  in  which  the  drawings  were  chosen  therefore 
for  their  instructive  and  exemplary,  more  than  their  merely 
attractive  qualities.  I  observed,  however,  that  the  number  of 
these  partly  detracted  from  their  utility ;  and  have  now  again 
chosen  out  of  them  a  consecutive  and  perfectly  magistral 
group,  of  which  it  may  safely  be  recommended  that  every  stu¬ 
dent  of  landscape  art  should  copy  every  one  in  succession,  as 
he  gains  the  power  to  do  so. 

This  first,  or  “  Scholar’s  ”  group,  consists  of  sixty-five  draw¬ 
ings  arranged,  at  present,  in  thirty  frames :  but  eventually, 


300 


INTRODUCTORY  CLASSIFICATION. 


each  of  these  drawings  should  be  separately  framed,  and  placed 
where  it  can  be  perfectly  seen  and  easily  copied. 

The  drawings  originally  exhibited  at  Kensington,  out  of 
which  this  narrower  group  is  now  selected,  were  for  several 
years  the  only  pencil  and  water-color  drawings  by  Turner 
accessible  to  the  public  in  the  National  collection.  I  there¬ 
fore  included  among  them  many  samples  of  series  which  were 
at  that  time  invisible,  but  to  which,  since  the  entire  mass  of 
drawings  is  now  collected,  it  is  proper  that  the  drawings 
which,  by  their  abstraction,  would  break  the  unity  of  subjects, 
should  be  restored.  I  have  therefore,  in  this  catalogue,  placed 
in  complete  order  all  the  important  local  groups  of  sketches 
(in  Rome,  Naples,  Savoy,  etc.),  and  retained  in  the  miscellane¬ 
ous  framed  collection  only  those  which  could  be  spared  with¬ 
out  breaking  the  sequence  of  the  cabinet  drawings.  And  fur¬ 
ther,  I  have  excluded  from  this  framed  collection  some  of 
minor  importance,  which  it  seems  to  me  might,  not  only  with¬ 
out  loss,  but  with  advantage  to  the  concentrated  power  of  the 
London  examples,  be  spared,  on  loan  for  use  in  provincial 
Art  schools. 

The  Kensington  series  of  framed  groups,  originally  num¬ 
bering  153,  has  by  these  two  processes  of  elimination  been 
reduced  in  the  following  catalogue  to  one  hundred,  of  which 
thirty  form  the  above-described  “  Scholar’s  group,”  absolutely 
faultless  and  exemplary.  The  remainder,  of  various  charac¬ 
ter  and  excellence  (which,  though  often  of  far  higher  reach 
than  that  of  the  Scholar’s  group,  is  in  those  very  highest 
examples  not  unaffected  by  the  master’s  peculiar  failings),  I 
have  in  the  following  catalogue  called  the  “  Student’s  group  ”  ; 
meaning  that  it  is  presented  to  the  thoughtful  study  of  the 
general  public,  and  of  advanced  artists  ;  but  that  it  is  only 
with  discrimination  to  be  copied,  and  only  with  qualification 
to  be  praised.  Whereas,  in  the  Scholar’s  group,  there  is  not 
one  example  which  may  not  in  every  touch  be  copied  with 
benefit,  and  in  every  quality,  without  reserve,  admired. 

After  these  two  series  follow  in  this  catalogue,  the  four 
hundred  framed  drawings  in  the  cabinets,  re-arranged  and 
completed  by  the  restorations  out  of  the  Kensington  series. 


INTRODUCTORY  CLASSIFICATION. 


301 


with  brief  prefatory  explanations  of  the  nature  of  each  group. 
One  or  two  gaps  still  require  filling  ;  but  there  being  some 
difficulty  in  choosing  examples  fit  for  the  exact  places,  I  pub¬ 
lish  the  list  as  it  stands.  The  present  numbers  are  given  in 
order  in  the  terminal  index. 

For  many  reasons  I  think  it  best  to  make  this  hand-cata¬ 
logue  direct  and  clear,  with  little  comment  on  separate  draw¬ 
ings.  I  may  possibly  afterward  issue  a  reprint  of  former 
criticism  of  the  collection,  with  some  further  practical  advice 
to  scholars. 


PRIMARY  SYNOPSIS. 


The  following  general  plan  of  the  new  arrangement  will 
facilitate  reference  in  the  separate  heads  of  it.  The  marginal 
figures  indicate  the  number  of  frames  in  each  series. 


First  Hundred. 

GROUP. 

I.  The  Scholar’s  Group, . 30 

n.  The  Student’s  Group, . 70 

100 


Second  Hundred. 

HI.  Scotland.  Pencil.  (Early), 

IV.  Still  Life.  Color.  (Mid.  Time), 
Y.  Switzerland.  Color.  (Early), 

VI.  Mountains.  Color.  (Late), 

YIL  Venice.  Color.  (Late), 


.  15 
.  5 

.  10 
.  50 
.  20 

100 


Third  Hundred. 

Vm.  Savoy.  Pencil  (Early),  .  .  .  .25 

IX.  Vignettes  to  Rogers’  Italy.  (Mid.  Time),  .  25 

X.  Rome.  (Mid.  Time),  .  .  .  .  .30 

XI.  Tivoli.  (Mid.  Time), . 5 

XH.  Naples.  (Mid.  Time), . 15 


100 


DR  A  WINGS  AND  SKETCHES  BY  TURNER . 


303 


Fourth  Hundred. 

GROUP. 

XIH.  Vignettes  to  Rogers’  Poems.  (Late), 

XIV.  Rivers  of  England.  (Late),  . 

XV.  Ports  of  England.  (Late), 

XVI.  Venice.  (Latest), 

XVH.  Various.  (Latest), 


35 

15 

5 

25 

20 


100 

Fifth  Hundred. 

XVIII.  Finest  Color  on  Gray.  (Late),  .  .  .25 

XIX.  Finest  Color  on  Gray.  (Latest),  .  .  .25 

XX.  Studies  on  Gray  for  Rivers  of  France.  (Late),  15 
XXL  The  Seine, . 35 


100 


GROUP  I. 

(First  Hundred.) 

The  Scholar’s  Group. 

It  consists  of  sixty-five  drawings  in  thirty  frames,  originally 
chosen  and  arranged  for  exhibition  at  Kensington,  togethei 
with  upward  of  a  hundred  more  (as  explained  in  the  preface), 
out  of  which  this  narrower  series,  doubly  and  trebly  sifted,  is 
now  recommended  to  the  learner,  for  constant  examination, 
and  progressive  practice  ;  the  most  elementary  examples  being 
first  given.  Their  proper  arrangement  would  be  on  a  scieen 
in  perfect  light,  on  a  level  with  the  eye  the  three  largest  only 
above  the  line  of  the  rest.  When  several  drawings  are  in  the 
1  same  frame,  they  are  lettered  a,  b,  c,  etc.,  either  from  left  to 
right,  or  from  above  downward.  The  numbers  on  the  light 
hand  of  the  page  are  those  by  which  they  are  indicated  in  the 


304 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


existing  arrangement ;  the  letter  K  standing  for  Kensington, 
to  prevent  confusion  with  the  numbers  of  those  in  cabinets, 
which  were  always  at  the  National  Gallery. 


2. 


3. 


4. 


1.  a.  Tower  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  Bristol, 

b.  Transept  and  Tower,  York  Cathedral. 

Tower  of  Boston,  Lincolnshire. 

Carnarvon  Castle,  ...... 

Wells  Cathedral. 

Malmesbury  Abbey.  Sketch  from  nature  for 
the  drawing  in  the  English  series,  . 

Study  of  sailing  boat, . 

Head  of  rowing  boat. 

Stern  of  rowing  boat. 

5.  a.  b.  Sketches  of  boats  in  light  and  shade,  . 

c.  Diagram  of  a  Dutch  boat. 

Study  of  spars  of  merchant-brig,  . 

Study  of  cottage  roof  in  color, 

Gate  of  Carisbrook  Castle.  Water  -  colored 

drawing,  half  way  completed,  . 
a.  Sketch  from  nature  at  Ivy  Bridge,  afterward 
realized  in  the  oil  picture, 


c. 

a. 

b. 


а. 

б. 

c. 


6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 


K 


k  145 


K  4 
K  18 


K  17 

K  10 

K  13 
K  14 

K  21 


b.  Sketch  of  the  bed  of  a  stream,  on  the  spot, 
half  finished. 

10.  a.  Sketch  from  nature  of  the  tree  on  the  left  in 

“  Crossing  the  Brook,”  .  .  .  .  k  16 

b.  c.  Studies  of  animals. 

d.  Sketch  from  nature  at  Ivy  Bridge,  realized 
in  the  finished  drawing  in  this  collec¬ 
tion. 


e.  Sketch  from  nature  in  Val  d’ Aosta,  amplified 
afterward  into  the  “Battle  of  Fort  Rock,” 
now  placed  in  the  upper  rooms  of  the 


Gallery, . 

.  .  K  41 

11. 

Doric  columns  and  entablature, 

.  k  33 

12. 

Part  of  the  portico  of  St.  Peter’s, 

.  K  11 

13. 

Glass  balls,  partly  filled  with  water. 

(Study  of 

reflection  and  refraction), 

.  .  K  121 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 

305 

14. 

Four  sketches  on  the  Seine,  for  drawings 

in  the 

Rivers  of  France.  On  gray  paper, 

• 

• 

k  70 

15. 

Two  studies  of  marine.  On  gray, 

* 

• 

k  143 

16. 

Four  sketches  at  Calais.  On  gray, 

• 

• 

K  71 

17. 

Four  sketches  on  the  Seine, 

• 

• 

k  73 

а.  Marly. 

б.  Near  St.  Germain. 

c.  Chateau  of  La  Belle  Gabrielle. 

d.  Near  St.  Germain. 

18.  Two  studies  of  the  Arch  of  Titus,  Rome,  on  white, 

stained  gray,  with  lights  taken  out,  .  .  k  120 

19.  Two  outline  sketches  of  Cockermouth  Castle,  .  k  G2 

20.  Two  outline  sketches  of  park  scenery,  .  .  k  GO 

21.  Rome  from  Monte  Mario.  Finest  pure  pencil,  .  k  101 

22.  Rome  from  Monte  Mario.  Pencil  outline  with 

color,  .  .......  k  103 

23.  Rome.  The  Coliseum.  Color,  unfinished,  .  k  107 

24.  Study  of  cutter.  (Charcoal),  .  .  .  .  k  45 

25.  Study  of  pilot  boat.  (Sepia),  .  .  .  .  k  4G 

26.  Two  pencil  studies,  Leeds,  and  Bolton  Abbey,  .  k  6 

27.  Four  pencil  sketches  at  and  near  York,  .  .  k  148 

28.  Two  pencil  sketches,  at  Cologne  and  on  the 

Rhine,  .......  k  147 

29.  Four  sketches  in  color  at  Petworth,  .  .  .  k  7G 

30.  Four  sketches  in  color  on  the  Loire  and  Meuse,  k  138 


GROUP  II 

( First  Hundred.') 

The  Student’s  Group. 

The  Student’s  group  is  arranged  so  as  to  exhibit  Turner  s 
methods  of  work,  from  his  earliest  to  his  latest  time  of  power. 
All  his  essential  characters  as  an  artist  are  shown  in  it ;  his 
highest  attainments,  with  his  peculiar  faults — faults  of  inher¬ 
ent  nature,  that  is  to  say  ;  as  distinguished  from  those  which, 
20 


306 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


after  the  year  1845,  were  signs  merely  of  disease.  No  work 
of  his  declining  time  is  admitted  into  this  series. 

It  begins  (No.  31)  with  three  examples  of  the  earliest  ef¬ 
forts  by  him  existing  in  the  National  collection  of  his  draw¬ 
ings.  Then  follow  examples  of  his  methods  of  study  with 
pencil  and  pen,  from  first  to  last :  then,  examples  of  his  work 
similarly  progressive,  in  transparent  color  on  white  paper ; 
and,  finally,  examples  of  his  use  of  body  color  on  gray  paper 
— a  method  only  adopted  late  in  life,  as  one  proper  for  none 
but  a  consummate  master. 

The  entire  series  is  contained  in  seventy  frames,  selected, 
as  those  of  the  Scholar’s  group  are,  from  the  collection  first 
arranged  for  Kensington  ;  and  close  the  first  hundred  of  the 
frames  here  permanently  catalogued. 

31.  Three  early  sketches  at  Clifton,  when  he  was 

twelve  or  thirteen  years  old.  He  went  on  for 
several  years  working  thus  in  pencil  and 
color ;  then  saw  the  necessity  of  working  in 
pencil  outline  only,  and  never  ceased  that 
method  of  work  to  the  close  of  life,  .  .  k  1 

32.  a.  Carew  Castle.  Early  pencil  outline,  after  he 

had  determined  its  method,  .  .  .  .  k  144 

b.  Lancaster,  of  later  date.  Both  drawings  real¬ 
ized  in  the  England  series. 

33.  a.  Kirkstall  Abbey,  .  .  .  .  .  .  k  5 

b.  Holy  Island  Cathedral.  Subjects  realized  in 

the  Liber  Studiorum. 

34.  Sketch  from  nature  of  the  Liber  subject,  “  Source 

of  the  Arveron,” . k  39 

35.  Sketch  from  nature  for  the  drawing  at  Farnley, 

“  Mont  Blanc  from  the  Valley  of  Chamouni,”  .  k  40 


36.  Foreground  studies,  laurel,  etc.,  .  .  .  .  k  51 

37.  Studies  of  market  ware  at  Rotterdam,  .  .  k  54 

38.  Study  of  sheep,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  k  52 

39.  Memoranda  of  coast  incidents,  .  :  .  .  .  k  20 

40.  Sketches  at  York,  .  .  .  .  .  .  k  149 

41.  Two  Egremont  subjects,  .  %  $  *  •  .  k  61 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


SOT 


42.  Two  Bridge  subjects, . K  14G 

43.  Studies  from  Claude,  etc., . k  118 

44.  Twelve  leaves  from  a  notebook  at  Venice  (all 

drawn  as  richly  on  the  other  sides),  .  .  k  115 

45.  Four  leaves  of  a  notebook  on  journey  to  Scotland 

bJ  sea, . k  H2 

46.  a.  Sketches  at  Andernach, . k  116 

b.  Sketches  on  the  Rhine. 

c.  Sketches  on  Lago  Maggiore. 

The  leaves  a  b  are  out  of  a  notebook  containing 
270  such. 


47. 

Sketches  at  Naples,  .... 

.  K  117 

48. 

At  Dresden, . 

.  K  119 

49. 

Cologne  Cathedral,  and  Rhine  subject, 

.  k  147 

50. 

Sketches  in  Rouen,  with  engraving  of 

finished 

drawing  made  from  one  of  them,  . 

.  k  55 

These  twenty  drawings  (31-50)  are  enough  to  show  the 
method  of  the  artist’s  usual  work  from  nature.  He  never 
sketched  in  tinted  shade  but  at  home,  in  making  studies  for 
pictures,  or  for  engravers,  as  in  the  series  of  the  Liber  Studi- 
orum.  When  he  wanted  light  and  shade  in  painting  from 
nature,  he  always  gave  color  also,  for  it  was  as  easy  to  him 
to  give  the  depth  of  shade  he  wanted  in  different  tints,  as  in 
one  ;  and  the  result  was  infinitely  more  complete  and  true. 
The  series  of  water- color  sketches  and  drawings  which  next 
follow,  represent,  therefore,  his  progress  in  color  and  chiar¬ 
oscuro  simultaneously ;  and  I  have  placed  under  the  next 
following  numbers,  examples  of  his  water-color  work  from 
the  beginning  of  its  effective  power,  to  the  end.  But  these 
are  not,  as  in  the  Scholar’s  group,  all  equally  exemplary. 
The  absolutely  safe  and  right  models  are  already  given  in  the 
Scholar’s  group  :  here,  there  are  instances  given  of  methods 
questionable — or  distinctly  dangerous,  as  well  as  of  the  best. 
Thus  Turner  drew  for  several  years  almost  exclusively  in 
neutral  tint,  as  in  No.  51 :  but  it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  this 
practice  should  be  enforced  as  academical ;  and  again,  the 
drawing  of  Folkestone  is  an  instance  of  delicacy  of  work  like 


308 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


that  of  a  miniature,  applied  to  a  large  surface ;  this  is  cer¬ 
tainly  a  practice  liable  to  lead  to  the  loss  of  simplicity  and 
power : — it  is  one  on  the  whole  to  be  deprecated  ;  and  it 
gravely  limited  Turner’s  power  of  making  large  and  manly 
drawings,  at  the  time  when  it  was  most  desirable  for  public 
instruction  that  he  should  have  done  so. 

The  drawings  of  Edinburgh,  and  Ivy  Bridge,  are  types  of 
his  finest  manner,  unaffected  by  this  weakness  of  minute  exe¬ 
cution.  The  drawings  of  Rochester  and  Dover  show  his 
minutest  execution  rightly  applied,  and  his  consummate  skill 
in  composition. 


51. 


52. 

53. 

54. 


55. 

56. 

57. 

58. 

59. 

60. 
61. 
62. 

63. 

64. 

65. 

66. 

67. 

68. 

69. 

70. 


View  of  Tivoli.  Neutral  tint  (one  of  multitudes, 
which  had  to  be  done  before  the  great  Tivolis 
could  be),  ....... 

Ruins  of  the  Savoy  Chapel.  Neutral  tint,  . 

Early  study  of  a  cottage, . 

The  Castle  of  Aosta ;  in  color,  with  the  pencil 
study  for  it  below  :  one  of  the  series  out 
of  which  Group  VIII.  (third  hundred)  was 

chosen,  . 

Angry  Swans, . 

Study  of  pigs  and  donkeys,  .... 

Study  of  ducks,  ....... 

Study  of  storm-clouds  ;  with  the  plate  afterward 
engraved  from  it  by  Turner  himself  beneath, 
Three  studies  at  sea,  ...... 

Study  of  evening  and  night  skies, 

Shields.  Engraved  for  Ports  of  England,  . 
Rochester.  Engraved  for  Rivers  of  England, 
Dover.  Engraved  for  Ports  of  England, 
Folkestone.  Large  drawing  unfinished, 
Edinburgh  from  the  Calton  Hill.  Finished  drawing, 
Ivy  Bridge.  Finished  drawing,  .... 

Battle  of  Fort  Rock.  Finished  drawing, 

The  Source  of  the  Arveron.  Unfinished,  large,  . 
Grenoble.  Unfinished,  large,  .... 

Grenoble.  “  “  .... 


k  9 

K  8 

K  12 


k  27 
k  122 
k  53 
k  58 

k  64 
k  65 
k  63 
k  68 
k  69 
k  67 
k  44 
k  35 
k  42 
K  41 
k  125 
k  126 
£  127 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


309 


The  two  last  drawings  are  among  the  most  exquisite  frag¬ 
ments  existing  of  his  central  manner.  They  are  beginnings 
of  a  favorite  subject,  which  he  seems  to  have  found  beyond  his 
power  on  this  scale,  and  afterward  finished  on  a  reduced  one. 
They  may  properly  close  the  examples  of  his  work  in  pure 
water-color.  Two  specimens  of  his  sketching  in  oil — a  rare 
practice  with  him — follow  ;  and  then,  a  magnificent  selection 
from  the  body-color  drawings  of  his  best  time,  which  contain 
the  most  wonderful  things  he  ever  did  in  his  own  special 
manner. 


71. 

72. 

73. 

74. 

75. 

76. 

77. 

78. 

79. 

80. 
81. 
82. 

83. 

84. 

85. 

86. 

87. 

88. 

89. 

90. 


Rocks  in  Bolton  glen, . 

Torrent  bed.  One  of  the  studies  made  at  the 
date  of  Ivy  Bridge,  ..... 

Sunset  and  Twilight :  the  last  at  Petworth, 
Pen-outline  sketches  for  the  Rivers  of  France,  . 
Tancarville,  and  three  other  French  subjects, 
Four  French  subjects,  . 

Rocks  on  the  Meuse,  and  three  other  subjects,  . 
Luxembourg,  and  three  other  subjects, 

Two  of  Honfleur,  two  unknown,  . 

Honfleur,  and  three  other  subjects, 

Dijon,  and  three  other  subjects,  . 

Interiors,  ..... 

Saumur,  Huy,  and  Dinant,  . 
a,  Town  on  Loire  ;  b,  Carrara  mountains, 

Nantes,  and  Dressing  for  Tea, 

Harfleur,  Caudebec,  and  two  others, 

Saumur,  and  two  others, 

Orleans  and  Nantes,  . 

Dinant,  etc.,  .... 

Havre,  etc., .  .  .  •  • 


k  128 

k  34 
k  132 
k  77 
k  81 
k  80 
k  82 
k  83 
k  84 
k  85 
k  86 
k  75 
k  133 
k  139 
K  135 
k  136 
k  137 
k  134 
k  78 
k  79 


Henceforward  to  the  close  of  the  Student  s  group  are  placed 
examples  of  his  quite  latest  manner  :  in  outline,  more  or  less 
fatigued  and  hasty,  though  full  of  detail — in  color,  sometimes 
extravagant — and  sometimes  gloomy  ;  but  every  now  and  then 
manifesting  more  than  his  old  power  in  the  treatment  of  sub* 
jects  under  aerial  and  translucent  effect. 


310  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


91.  Fribourg,  Swiss.  Pen  outline  over  pencil,  .  k  152 

92.  Fribourg,  Swiss.  Pen  outline  over  pencil,  .  k  153 

93.  Swiss  Fortress  and  Grenoble, .  .  .  .  k  142 

94.  Lausanne,  and  another  subject,  .  .  .  k  93 

95.  Fluelen  and  Kussnacht, . k  95 

96.  Lake  of  Annecy,  and  Landeck,  .  .  .  k  96 

97.  Venice,  .  .  . k  97 

98.  Venice,  . . k  98 

99.  Lucerne  and  Zurich, . k  99 

100.  Lake  Lucerne.  Morning,  .  .  .  .  k  100  c. 


SECOND  HUNDRED. 

(i Cabinet  Drawings.) 

The  second  century  of  the  drawings,  as  rearranged,  forms 
a  mixed  group,  containing  both  early  and  late  work,  which  I 
have  thrown  together  in  a  cluster,  in  order  to  make  the 
arrangement  of  the  following  three  hundred  drawings  more 
consistent. 

The  first  thirty  drawings  of  this  hundred  are  all  early  ;  and 
of  consummate  value  and  interest.  The  remaining  seventy 
were  made  at  the  time  of  the  artist’s  most  accomplished 
power  ;  but  are  for  the  most  part  slight,  and  intended  rather 
to  remind  himself  of  what  he  had  seen,  than  to  convey  any 
idea  of  it  to  others.  Although,  as  I  have  stated,  they  are 
placed  in  this  group  because  otherwise  they  would  have  inter¬ 
fered  with  the  order  of  more  important  drawings,  it  cannot 
but  be  interesting  to  the  student  to  see,  in  close  sequence,  the 
best  examples  of  the  artist’s  earliest  and  latest  methods  of 
sketching. 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


311 


GROUP  IIL 

(Second  Hundred.) 

Fifteen  pencil  drawings  of  Scottish  scenery  made  on  his 
first  tour  in  Scotland,  and  completed  afterward  in  light  and 
shade,  on  tinted  paper  touched  with  white.  Several  of  his 
best  early  colored  drawings  were  made  from  these  studies, 
and  are  now  in  the  great  collection  at  Farnley. 

They  are  all  remarkable  for  what  artists  call  “  breadth  ”  of 
effect  (carried  even  to  dulness  in  its  serene  rejection  of  all 
minor  elements  of  the  picturesque — craggy  chasms,  broken 
waterfalls,  or  rustic  cottages) ;  and  for  the  labor  given  in 
careful  pencil  shading,  to  round  the  larger  masses  of  moun¬ 
tain,  and  show  the  relation  of  the  clouds  to  them.  The  moun¬ 
tain  forms  are  always  perfect,  the  clouds  carefully  modelled ; 
when  they  cross  the  mountains  they  do  so  solidly,  and  there 
is  no  permission  of  the  interferences  of  haze  or  rain.  The 
composition  is  always  scientific  in  the  extreme. 

I  do  not  know  the  localities,  nor  are  they  of  much  conse¬ 
quence.  Their  order  is  therefore  founded,  at  present,  only  on 
the  character  of  subject  ;  but  I  have  examined  this  series  less 
carefully  than  any  of  the  others,  and  may  modify  its  sequence 
in  later  editions  of  this  catalogue.  The  grand  introductory 
upright  one  is,  I  think,  of  Tummel  bridge,  and  with  the  one 
following,  102,  shows  the  interest  which  the  artist  felt  from 
earliest  to  latest  days  in  all  rustic  architecture  of  pontifical 
character. 

The  four  following  subjects,  103-106,  contain  materials 
used  in  the  Liber  composition  called  “  Ben  Arthur  ”  ;  114  is 
called  at  Farnley  “  Loch  Fyne.” 

The  reference  numbers  in  the  right  hand  column  are  hence¬ 
forward  to  the  cabinet  frames  as  at  present  arranged,  unless 
the  prefixed  K  indicate  an  insertion  of  one  out  of  the  Ken¬ 
sington  series. 


312  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


101.  Scotland.  (Bridges  on  the  Tummel  ? ),  .  .  311 

102.  Scotland.  Bridges  and  village,  ....  313 

103.  Scotland.  Argyllshire?  .....  309 

104.  Scotland.  Argyllshire  ?  .  •  .  .  .310 

105.  Scotland.  Argyllshire  ? . 307 

106.  Scotland.  Study  of  trees, . k  22a 

107.  Scotland.  Study  of  trees,  .  .  .  .  .  k  22 b 

108.  Scotland.  Study  of  trees, . 30G 

109.  Scotland,  .  346 

110.  Scotland,  . . 347 

111.  Scotland,  ........  348 

112.  Scotland, . 349 

113.  Scotland.  LochFyne? . 312 

114.  Scotland.  LochFyne? . 314 

115.  Scotland, . 308 


GKOUP  IY. 

( Second  Hundred.) 

STUDIES  OF  BIRDS  AND  FISH. 

Placed  immediately  after  the  Scottish  series  in  order  to 
show  the  singularly  various  methods  of  the  Master’s  study. 
These  sketches  are,  however,  at  least  ten  years  later  in  date. 
They  are  all  executed  with  a  view  mainly  to  color,  and,  in 
color,  to  its  ultimate  refinements,  as  in  the  gray  down  of  the 
birds,  and  the  subdued  iridescences  of  the  fish. 

There  is  no  execution  in  water-color  comparable  to  them 
for  combined  rapidity,  delicacy,  and  precision — the  artists  of 
the  world  may  be  challenged  to  approach  them  ;  and  I  know 
of  only  one  piece  of  Turner’s  own  to  match  them — the  Dove 
at  Farnley. 


•  •••••• 


116.  Teal,  . 

117.  Teal,  . 


.  k  59 
.  375 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


313 


118.  (Not  yet  placed.)  * 

119.  Perch, . 373 

120.  Trout  and  other  fish . 374 


GROUP  V. 

(Second  Hundred.) 

COLORED  SKETCHES  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

These  quite  stupendous  memoranda  were  made  on  his  first 
Swiss  journey,  1803,  and  are  at  the  maximum  of  his  early 
power.  Several  of  very  high  quality  were  made  from  those 
on  the  St.  Gothard ;  a  beautiful  one  at  Farnley  from  126  ;  and 
the  greatest  of  the  Liber  mountain  subjects,  from  123,  125, 
and  127. 


121.  On  the  pass  of  St.  Gothard,  above  Amsteg,  .  .  324 

122.  The  old  road,  pass  of  St.  Gothard,  .  .  .  320 

123.  The  old  Devil’s  Bridge,  pass  of  St.  Gothard,  .  321 

124.  Bonneville,  Savoy,  .  .  •  .  .  •  •  323 

125.  The  Source  of  the  Arveron,  as  it  was  in  1803,  .  319 

126.  The  Mer-de-glace  of  Chamouni,  looking  upstream,  325 

127.  The  Mer-de-glace  of  Chamouni,  looking  down¬ 

stream,  322 

128.  Contamines,  Savoy, . K  38 

(Two  subjects  still  wanting  to  this  series,  may,  I  believe,  be 
furnished  out  of  the  reserves  in  tin  cases.) 


*  I  may  possibly  afterward,  with  the  permission  of  the  Trustees,  be 
able  to  supply  this  gap  with  a  drawing  of  a  Jay,  given  me  by  Mr.  W. 
Kingsley,  or  with  some  purchased  example — there  being  no  more  than 
these  four  in  the  National  collection. 


314 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


GROUP  VI. 

(Second  Hundred.) 

Fifty  sketches  on  liis  later  Continental  journeys,  made  in 
pencil  outline  only  on  the  spot,  and  colored  from  memory. 
Of  the  finest  quality  of  pure  Turnerian  art,  which  is  in  sum, 
as  explained  in  my  various  university  lectures  over  and  over 
again,  the  true  abstraction  of  the  color  of  Nature  as  a  distinct 
subject  of  study,  with  only  so  much  of  light  and  shade  as  may 
explain  the  condition  and  place  of  the  color,  without  taint¬ 
ing  its  purity.  In  the  modern  French  school,  all  the  color 
is  taken  out  of  Nature,  and  only  the  mud  left.  By  Turner, 
all  the  mud  is  taken  out  of  Nature,  and  only  the  color  left. 
Tones  of  chiaroscuro,  which  depend  upon  color,  are  however 
often  given  in  full  depth,  as  in  the  Nos.  138,  139,  179,  and  180. 


131. 

The  Red  Gorge, 

72 

132. 

The  Allee  Blanche,  . 

47 

133. 

The  Via  Mala,  .... 

73 

134. 

Miner’s  Bridge, 

80 

135. 

Altorf,  ..... 

100 

136. 

Martigny,  .... 

81 

137. 

Mont  Righi  at  dawn, 

96 

138. 

Mont  Righi  at  sunset, 

45 

139. 

Fort  l’Ecluse,  .... 

42 

140. 

Bent  d’Oches,  from  Lausanne, 

41 

141. 

Lausanne,  .... 

44 

142. 

Lausanne,  .... 

50 

143. 

Lausanne,  .... 

91 

144. 

Lausanne,  .... 

92 

145. 

Lausanne,  .... 

95 

146. 

Vevay,  ..... 

c 

46 

147. 

Baden  (Swiss), 

• 

• 

49 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 

148.  Baden  (Swiss),  .... 

149.  Baden  (Swiss),  .... 

150.  Heidelberg,  ..... 

151.  Heidelberg, . 

152.  Heidelberg,  • 

153.  Coblentz,  Bridge  of  boats, 

154.  Coblentz,  Bridge  of  boats, 

155.  Coblentz,  Bridge  on  tlie  Moselle, 

156.  Coblentz,  Bridge  on  the  Moselle,  . 

157.  Fortress,  ..... 

158.  Fortress, . 

159.  Biver  scene,  ..... 

160.  River  scene,  ..... 

161.  Rheinfelden,  just  above  Basle,  Swiss, 

162.  Rheinfelden, . 

163.  Rheinfelden,  ..... 

164.  Rheinfelden,  ..... 

165.  Rheinfelden,  . 

166.  Fortress, . 

167.  Lake  Lucerne,  from  Kussnacht, 

168.  Mont  Pilate,  from  Kussnacht, 

169.  Lake  Lucerne,  from  Brunnen, 

170.  Lake  Lucerne,  from  Brunnen, 

171.  Zurich, . 

172.  Zurich, . 

173.  Lucerne,  . 

174.  Schaff  hausen,  .... 

175.  Constance  ..... 

176.  Splugen, . 

177.  Bellinzona, . 

178.  Fluelen, . 

179.  Aart, . 

180.  Goldau, . 


315 

83 

85 

284 
282 
283 

279 
k  94  b 

280 
k  94  ci 

48 

82 

78 

79 

86 

87 

88 

89 

90 
77 
43 

290 
k  100  a 
k  100  5 
289 

287 

288 

285 

286 
75 
94 
99 

97 

98 


316 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


GROUP  m 

( Second  Hundred.) 

TWENTY  SKETCHES  IN  VENICE, 

Characteristic  of  Turner’s  entirely  final  manner,  when  the 
languor  of  age  made  him  careless,  or  sometimes  reluctant  in 
outline,  while  yet  his  hand  had  lost  none  of  its  subtlety,  nor 
his  eye  of  its  sense  for  color.  From  the  last  but  one  (199) 
he  painted  the  best  of  his  late  Academy  pictures,  now  in  the 
upper  gallery,  and  188  has  itself  been  carried  forward  nearly 
to  completion. 


181. 

The  Approach  to  Venice,  . 

• 

51 

182. 

The  Ducal  Palace  and  Riva, 

• 

52 

183. 

The  Riva  (dei  Schiavoni),  .... 

• 

53 

184. 

The  Riva,  from  the  Canal  of  Chioggia, 

• 

54 

185. 

Church  of  Salute,  from  the  Riva, 

• 

55 

186. 

The  Riva,  looking  west,  .... 

• 

56 

187. 

The  Riva,  from  the  outlet  of  the  Canal  of  the 

Arsenal,  ...... 

• 

57 

188. 

The  Canal  of  the  Arsenal,  .... 

• 

58 

189. 

Bridge  over  the  Canal  of  the  Arsenal,  . 

• 

59 

190. 

San  Giorgio,  ...... 

• 

60 

191. 

The  Steps  of  the  Salute,  .... 

• 

61 

192. 

The  Grand  Canal,  with  the  Salute, 

• 

62 

193. 

The  Casa  Grimani,  ..... 

• 

63 

194. 

San  Simeon  Piccolo,  ..... 

• 

64 

195. 

Fishing  Boat,  ...... 

• 

65 

196. 

Moonrise,  ....... 

• 

66 

197. 

The  Giudecca,  with  Church  of  Redentore, 

• 

67 

198. 

Looking  down  the  Giudecca, 

• 

68 

199. 

Looking  up  the  Giudecca,  .... 

• 

69 

200. 

Farewell  to  Venice, . 

• 

70 

SKETCHES  BT  TURNER 


317 


THIRD  HUNDRED. 

The  third  century  of  drawings  consists  entirely  of  sketches 
or  compositions  made  in  Italy,  or  illustrative  of  Italian  scen¬ 
ery  and  history.  It  opens  with  a  group  of  pencil  sketches 
made  in  Savoy  and  Piedmont  in  1803,  showing  the  artist’s 
first  impressions  of  the  Italian  Alps.  Then  follow  the  vig¬ 
nettes  made  to  illustrate  Rogers’  poem  of  “  Italy,”  many  of 
which  were  composed  from  the  preceding  pencil  sketches; 
and  then  follow  fifty  sketches  made  on  his  first  visit  to  south¬ 
ern  Italy,  divided  into  three  groups,  illustrative  of  Rome, 
Tivoli,  and  Naples. 


GROUP  VIII. 

( Third  Hundred.) 

TWENTY-FIVE  SKETCHES  IN  SAVOY  AND  PIEDMONT, 

With  very  black,  soft  pencil,  on  dark  tinted  paper,  touched 
with  white.  Of  the  highest  value  and  interest.  Made,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  in  1803 ;  at  all  events  on  his  first  Continental  journey  : 
all  in  complete  chiaroscuro,  and  in  his  grandest  manner. 
They  are  absolutely  true  to  the  places;  no  exaggeration  is 
admitted  anywhere  or  in  any  respect,  and  the  compositions, 
though  in  the  highest  degree  learned,  and  exemplary  of  con¬ 
structive  principles  in  design,  are  obtained  simply  by  selection, 
not  alteration,  of  forms — and  by  the  introduction  either  of 
clouds,  figures,  or  entirely  probable  light  and  shade. 

All  are  rapid  and  bold  ;  some,  slight  and  impetuous  ;  but 
they  cannot  be  too  constantly  studied,  or  carefully  copied,  by 
landscape  students,  since,  "whatever  their  haste,  the  conception 
is  always  entirely  realized  ;  and  the  subject  disciplined  into  a 
complete  picture,  balanced  and  supported  from  corner  to  cor¬ 
ner,  and  concluded  in  all  its  pictorial  elements. 


318 


CATALOGUE  OF  ERA  WINGS  AND 


Observe  also  that  although  these  sketches  give  some  of  the 
painter’s  first,  strongest,  and  most  enduring  impressions  of 
mountain  scenery,  and  architecture  of  classical  dignity — their 
especial  value  to  the  general  student  is  that  they  are  in  no 
respect  distinctively  Tarnerian,  but  could  only  be  known  by 
their  greater  strength  and  precision  from  studies  such  as 
Gainsborough  or  Wilson  might  have  made  at  the  same  spots  : 
and  they  are  just  as  useful  to  persons  incapable  of  coloring, 
in  giving  them  the  joy  of  rightly  treated  shade,  as  to  the  ad¬ 
vanced  colorist  in  compelling  him  to  reconsider  the  founda¬ 
tions  of  effect,  which  he  is  too  often  beguiled  into  forgetting. 


201.  Town  of  Grenoble, . k  32  a 

202.  Grenoble,  with  Mont  Blanc,  .  .  .  .  k  31  b 

203.  Grenoble,  with  Mont  Blanc,  ....  5 

204.  Boad  from  Grenoble  to  Voreppe,  .  .  .  k  30  a 

205.  Entrance  to  the  Chartreuse,  ....  9 

206.  Entrance  to  the  Chartreuse,  ....  10 

207.  Entrance  to  the  Chartreuse,  ....  12 

208.  Bridges  at  the  Chartreuse,  .  .  .  .  11 

209.  Cascade  of  the  Chartreuse,  ....  14 

210.  Gate  of  the  Chartreuse  (looking  forward),  .  17 

211.  Gate  of  the  Chartreuse  (looking  back),  .  .  18 

212.  Gate  of  the  Chartreuse  (looking  back,  farther 

off), . 19 

213.  Chain  of  Alps  of  the  Chartreuse,  ...  3 

214.  Alps  of  the  Chartreuse  (the  Liber  subject),  .  k  31  a 

215.  Val  d’lsere, . k  29  b 

216.  Yal  d’lsere,  with  Mont  Blanc,  .  .  .  .  k  30  b 

217.  Martigny,  ........  24 

218.  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard,  .  .  .  .  .  k  25  a 

219.  Descent  to  Aosta,  ......  22 

220.  Town  of  Aosta,  .  .  .  .  .  .  k  25  b 

221.  East  gate  of  Aosta  (Italy  vignette),  .  .  .  k  26  a 

222.  Triumphal  arch  of  Aosta,  .  .  .  .  .  k  26  b 

223.  Near  Aosta,  .......  23 

224.  Ascent  to  Courmayeur,  .  .  .  .  .  k  29  a 

225.  Descent  to  Ivrea, . 25 


SKETCHES  BT  TURNER. 


3U) 


GROUP  IX. 

(Third  Hundred.) 

The  vignettes  to  Rogers’  “  Italy  ”  are  of  Turner’s  best  time, 
and  contain  some  of  his  very  best  work  ;  the  more  interesting 
because,  with  few  exceptions,  they  are  quickly,  and  even 
slightly,  executed.  Whether  slight,  or  carried  on  to  comple¬ 
tion,  they  are  in  the  highest  degree  exemplary  to  the  student 
of  water -color;  one  only  excepted,  the  “Venice,”  which, 
whether  painted  during  some  fit  of  slight  illness,  or  perhaps 
hurriedly  by  candlelight  under  some  unexpected  call  from  the 
engraver,  is  utterly  different  from  the  rest,  and  wholly  un¬ 
worthy  of  the  painter.  This  is  therefore  excluded  from  the 
series,  and  placed  among  the  supplementary  studies.  The 
total  number  of  vignettes  executed  by  Turner  for  Rogers’ 
“Italy”  was  twenty-five;  but  one,  the  “Dead-house  of  St. 
Bernard,”  is  irrevocably  in  America,  and  the  exclusion  of  the 
“  Venice  ”  leaves  the  total  number  in  these  cases,  twenty-three. 
To  complete  them  to  a  symmetrical  twenty-five  I  have  placed 
with  them,  to  terminate  their  series,  the  two  of  the  later  series 
executed  for  Rogers’  “Poems,”  which  have  most  in  common 
with  the  earlier  designs  of  the  “Italy.” 

The  twenty-three  Italian  ones  are  arranged  with  little  varia¬ 
tion  from  the  order  in  wrhich  they  are  placed  as  the  illustra¬ 
tions  of  the  poems  ;  the  reasons  for  admitted  variations  will 
be  comprehended  without  difficulty.  The  two  that  are  added 
are  bold  compositions  from  materials  in  Italy  ;  the  last  was 
the  illustration  of  Rogers’  line,  “The  shepherd  on  Tornaro  s 
misty  brow,”  beginning  a  description  of  sunrise  as  the  type 
of  increasing  knowledge  and  imagination  in  childhood.  But 
there  is  no  such  place  known  as  Tornaro,  and  the  composition, 
both  in  the  color  of  sea  and  boldness  of  precipice,  resembles 
only  the  scenery  of  the  Sicilian  Islands. 


320  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 

226.  The  Lake  of  Geneva, . 210 

227.  The  Lake  of  Lucerne  (from  Tell’s  Chapel),  .  .  213 

228.  St.  Maurice, . 205 

229.  Martigny, . 212 

230.  Hospice  of  St.  Bernard, . 211 

231.  Aosta,  .  203 

232.  Hannibal  passing  the  Alps, . 204 

233.  The  Battle  of  Marengo, . 207 

234.  The  Lake  of  Como,  ......  215 

235.  Isola  Bella,  Lago  Maggiore, . 208 

236.  Verona.  Moonlight,  ......  217 

237.  Padua.  Moonlight.  The  Canal  for  Venice,  .  223 

238.  Florence,  ........  214 

239.  Galileo’s  Villa,  Arcetri,  ......  221 

240.  Composition, . 202 

241.  Rome, . 216 

242.  St.  Peter’s, . -218 

243.  The  Campagna, . 219 

244.  Tivoli,  The  Temple  of  the  Sybil,  ....  224 

245.  Banditti,  ........  222 

246.  Naples,  ........  201 

247.  Amalfi,  .........  225 

248.  Paestum,  ........  206 

249.  The  Garden,  .......  220 

250.  The  Cliffs  of  Sicily.  Sunrise,  ....  230 


GROUP  X. 

( Third  Hundred.) 

THIRTY  SKETCHES  IN  PENCIL,  SOMETIMES  TOUCHED  WITH 

COLOR,  AT  ROME. 

This  group,  with  the  two  following,  exemplify  the  best 
drawings  made  by  Turner  from  Nature.  All  his  powers  were 
at  this  period  in  perfection  ;  none  of  his  faults  had  developed 
themselves ;  and  his  energies  were  taxed  to  the  utmost  to 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER . 


321 


seize,  both  in  immediate  admiration,  and  for  future  service, 
the  loveliest  features  of  some  of  the  most  historically  interest¬ 
ing  scenery  in  the  world. 

There  is  no  exaggeration  in  any  of  these  drawings,  nor  any 
conventionalism  but  that  of  outline.  They  are,  in  all  re¬ 
spects,  the  most  true  and  the  most  beautiful  ever  made  by  the 
painter  ;  but  they  differ  from  the  group  first  given  (VII.) 
in  being  essentially  Turnerian,  representing  those  qualities  of 
form  and  color  in  which  the  painter  himself  most  delighted, 
and  which  persons  of  greatly  inferior  or  essentially  different 
faculties  need  not  hope  for  benefit  by  attempting  to  copy. 
The  quantity  of  detail  given  in  their  distances  can  only  be 
seen,  in  a  natural  landscape,  by  persons  possessing  the  strong¬ 
est  and  finest  faculties  of  sight :  and  the  tones  of  color 
adopted  in  them  can  only  be  felt  by  persons  of  the  subtlest 
color -temperament,  and  happily  -  trained  color -disposition. 
To  the  average  skill,  the  variously  imperfect  ocular  power, 
and  blunted  color-feeling  of  most  of  our  town-bred  students, 
the  qualities  of  these  drawings  are — not  merely  useless,  but, 
in  the  best  parts  of  them,  literally  invisible. 

On  the  other  hand,  to  students  of  fine  faculty  and  well- 
trained  energy,  no  drawings  in  the  world  are  to  be  named 
with  these  fifty  (251-300),  as  lessons  in  landscape  drawing  : 


251. 

Rome  from  Monte  Mario  (finest  pencil),  . 

.  K  101 

252. 

Rome  from  Monte  Mario  (partly  colored), 

.  k  103 

253. 

Villas  on  Monte  Mario,  .... 

326 

254. 

Stone  pines  on  Monte  Mario,  . 

263 

255. 

The  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 

262 

256. 

The  Bridge  and  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 

.  k  102 

257. 

The  Tiber  and  Castle  of  St.  Angelo, 

255 

258. 

The  Tiber  and  the  Capitol, 

264 

259. 

The  Tiber  and  the  Apennines, . 

268 

260. 

Study  in  Rome,  . 

266 

261. 

Foreground  in  Rome,  .... 

332 

262. 

Foreground  in  Rome,  with  living  acanthus, 

.  k  111  6 

263. 

Foreground  in  Rome,  .... 

257 

264. 

St.  Peter’s,  from  the  West, 

267 

21 


CATALOGUE  OF  DBA  WINGS  AND 


265.  St.  Peter’s,  from  the  South  (pencil),  .  .  250 

266.  Colored  sketch  of  the  same  subject,  .  .  273 

267.  St.  Peter’s  and  the  Vatican,  ....  269 

268.  The  Colonnade  of  Bernini  (beneath),  .  .  256 

269.  The  Portico  of  St.  Peter’s,  ....  258 

270.  The  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus  (pencil  on  gray),  253 

271.  The  Basilica  of  Constantine  (color),  .  .  .  k  108 

272.  The  Coliseum  and  Basilica  of  Constantine,  .  272 

273.  The  Coliseum  and  Arch  of  Constantine,  .  .  331 

274.  The  Coliseum  and  Arch  of  Titus,  .  .  .  328 

275.  The  Coliseum — seen  near,  with  flock  of  goats, .  275 

276.  The  Coliseum  (study  of  daylight  color), .  .  271 

277.  The  Coliseum  in  pale  sunset,  with  new  moon, .  265 

278.  The  Palatine,  .......  274 

279.  The  Alban  Mount, . 260 

280.  Rome  and  the  Apennines,  ....  327 


GROUP  XI. 

( Third  Hundred .) 

Five  sketches  from  nature  at  Tivoli ;  three  in  pencil,  two 
in  color.  Unsurpassable. 


281. 

282. 

283. 

284. 

285. 


The  Temple  of  Vesta  (in  distance),  .  .  .  302 

The  Temple  of  Vesta  (near),  .  .  .  .  .252 

General  view  from  the  valley,  ....  303 
The  same  subject  in  color,  .....  340 
The  Town  with  its  Cascades,  and  the  Campagna,  .  339 


GROUP  xn. 

[Third  Hundred.) 

Fifteen  sketches,  at  or  near  Rome  and  Naples.  The  three 
Campagna  ones,  with  the  last  four  of  the  Neapolitan  group, 
are  exemplary  of  all  Turner’s  methods  of  water-color  paint¬ 
ing  at  the  acme  of  his  sincere  power. 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER.  323 

286.  Campagna.  Warm  sunset.  Inestimable,  .  329 

287.  Campagna.  Slighter,  but  as  fine.  Morning,  .  330 

288.  Campagna.  Snowy  Apennines  in  distance,  .  338 

289. 

290.  Nymphseum  of  Alexander  Severus,  .  .  .  k  105 

291.  Study  for  the  great  picture  of  the  Loggie  of 

Vatican, . k  111  a 

292.  Naples,  from  the  South  (pencil),  .  .  .  333 

293.  Queen  Joanna’s  Palace  and  St.  Elmo  (pencil), .  305 

291.  Villas  at  Posilipo  (pencil),  ....  301 

295.  Naples  and  Vesuvius,  from  the  North  (color). 

296.  The  Castle  of  the  Egg.  Light  against  dark,  .  304 

297.  The  Castle  of  the  Egg.  Dark  against  light,  .  334 

298.  Vesuvius.  Beginning  of  finished  drawing,  .  335 

299.  Monte  St.  Angelo  and  Capri.  Morning,  .  336 

300.  Monte  St.  Angelo  and  Capri.  Evening,  .  .  337 


FOURTH  HUNDRED. 

The  fourth  century  of  drawings  are  all  of  the  later  middle 
period  of  Turner’s  career,  where  the  constant  reference  to  the 
engraver  or  the  Academy-visitor,  as  more  or  less  the  critic  or 
patron  of  his  work,  had  betrayed  him  into  mannerisms  and 
fallacies  which  gradually  undermined  the  constitution  of  his 
intellect :  while  yet  his  manual  skill,  and  often  his  power  of 
imagination,  increased  in  certain  directions.  Some  of  the 
loveliest,  and  executively  the  most  wonderful,  of  his  drawings 
belong  to  this  period  ;  but  few  of  the  greatest,  and  none  of 
the  absolutely  best,  while  many  are  inexcusably  faultful  or 
false.  With  few  exceptions,  they  ought  not  to  be  copied  by 
students,  for  the  best  of  them  are  inimitable  in  the  modes  of 
execution  peculiar  to  Turner,  and  are  little  exemplary  other¬ 
wise. 

The  initial  group  of  this  class,  the  thirteenth  in  consecutive 
order,  contains  the  best  of  the  vignettes  executed  in  illustra¬ 
tion  of  Rogers’  “Pleasures  of  Memory,”  “Voyage  of  Colurrv- 


324 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


bus,”  and  other  minor  poems.  In  most  cases  they  are  far 
more  highly  finished  than  those  of  the  “  Italy  ;  ”  but  few  show 
equal  power,  and  none  the  frank  sincerity.  The  two  best  of 
all  had  much  in  common  with  the  Italian  series,  and  have 
been  placed  with  it ;  but  “  The  Twilight  ”  (301),  “  Green¬ 
wich”  (306),  “Bolton  Abbey”  (311),  “  Vallombre”  (316),  and 
“Departure  of  Columbus”  (321),  are  among  the  subtlest  exam¬ 
ples  of  the  artist’s  peculiar  manner  at  this  period  ;  and  all,  as 
now  arranged  up  to  the  number  325,  have  a  pretty  connection 
and  sequence,  illustrative  of  the  painter’s  thought,  no  less  than 
of  the  poet’s. 

They  have  a  farther  interest,  as  being  the  origin  of  the 
loveliest  engravings  ever  produced  by  the  pure  line  ;  and  I 
hope  in  good  time  that  proofs  of  the  plates  may  be  exhibited 
side  by  side  with  the  drawings.  In  arranging  the  twenty-five 
excellent  ones  just  described,  I  have  thrown  out  several  un¬ 
worthy  of  Turner — which,  however,  since  they  cannot  be  sep¬ 
arated  from  their  proper  group,  follow  it,  numbering  from  326 
to  335 ;  the  gaps  being  filled  up  by  various  studies  for  vignettes 
of  the  “Italy”  as  well  as  the  “Poems,”  which  I  extricated 
from  the  heaps  of  loose  sketches  in  the  tin  cases. 


GKOUP  XIII. 

(Fourth  Hundred.) 


301. 

Twilight, . 

.  226 

302. 

Gypsies, . 

.  231 

303. 

The  Native  Village,  .... 

.  227 

304. 

Greenwich,  . . 

.  234 

305. 

The  Water-gate  of  the  Tower, 

.  235 

306. 

St.  Anne’s  Hill, . 

.  228 

307. 

St.  Anne’s  Hill,  ..... 

.  229 

308. 

The  Old  Oak  in  Life,  .... 

.  232 

309. 

The  Old  Oak  in  Death, 

.  .  233 

310. 

The  Boy  of  Egremont, 

.  236 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER.  325 

311.  Bolton  Abbey, . 237 

312.  St.  Herbert’s  Isle,  Derwentwater.  (Ideal),  .  .  238 

313.  Lodore, . 239 

314.  Loch  Lomond, . 240 

315.  Jacqueline’s  Cottage.  (Ideal),  ....  241 

316.  The  Falls  at  Vallombre.  (Ideal),  .  .  .  243 

317.  The  Alps  at  Daybreak.  (Ideal),*  ....  242 

318.  The  Captive.  (Ideal), . 245 

319.  St.  Julian’s  Well.  (Ideal), . 244 

320.  Columbus  at  La  Rabida, . 246 

321.  Departure  of  Columbus,  .....  247 

322.  Dawn  on  the  last  day  of  the  Voyage,  .  .  .  248 

323.  Morning  in  America, . 249 

324.  Cortez  and  Pizarro, . 250 

325.  Datur  Hora  Quieti, . 397 


Next  follow  the  inferior  ones ;  among  which  the  pretty 
“  Rialto  ”  is  degraded  because  there  is  no  way  over  the  bridge, 
and  the  “Ducal  Palace”  for  its  coarse  black  and  red  color. 
So  also  the  “Manor-house,”  though  Mr.  Goodall  made  a  quite 
lovely  vignette  from  it  ;  as  also  from  the  “Warrior  Ghosts.” 


326.  The  English  Manor-house,  ....  399 

327.  The  English  School, . 396 

328.  The  English  Fair, . 398 

329.  Venice.  The  Ducal  Palace,  ....  391 

330.  Venice.  The  Rialto,  .  .  .  .  •  394 

331.  The  Simoom,  . 393 

332.  The  War-spirits,  . . 400 

333.  The  Warrior  Ghosts, . 395 

334.  Studv  for  the  Warrior  Ghosts,  .  .  .  k  87a 

335.  Second  study  for  the  same  vignette,  .  .  k  876 


*  And  the  figures  absurd  ;  but  by  Rogers’  fault,  not  Turner’s.  See 
the  very  foolish  poem. 


326 


CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


GROUP  XIV. 

(Fourth  Hundred.) 

RIVERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

This  most  valuable  group  consists  of  fifteen  finished  draw¬ 
ings,  which  always  remained  in  Turner’s  possession,  he  refus¬ 
ing  to  sell  separately,  and  the  public  of  his  time  not  caring 
to  buy  in  mass. 

They  were  made  for  publication  by  engraving ;  and  were 
skilfully  engraved  ;  but  only  in  mezzotint.  They  are  of  the 
highest  quality,  in  so  far  as  work  done  for  engraving  can  be, 
and  all  finished  with  the  artist’s  best  skill.  Two  of  the  series 
of  fifteen  are  placed  in  the  Student’s  group,  and  room  thus 
made  for  two  of  the  “  Ports,”  which  are  consecutive  with  the 
following  group  : 


336. 

Stangate  Creek, 

(on  River)  Medway, 

.  161 

337. 

Totness, 

it 

Dart, 

.  162 

338. 

Dartmouth, 

a 

Dart, 

.  163 

339. 

Dartmouth  Castle, 

a 

Dart, 

.  164 

340. 

Okehampton  Castle,  “ 

Okement, 

.  165 

341. 

Arundel  Castle, 

a 

Arun, 

.  166 

342. 

Arundel  Park, 

a 

Arun, 

.  167 

343. 

More  Park, 

a 

Colne,  . 

.  168 

344. 

Newcastle, 

tt 

Tyne,  . 

.  171 

345. 

Kirkstall  Abbey, 

a 

Aire, 

.  173 

346. 

Kirkstall  Lock, 

a 

Aire, 

.  172 

347. 

Brougham  Castle, 

a 

Lowther, 

.  174 

348. 

Norham  Castle, 

a 

Tweed,  . 

.  175 

349. 

Whitby, 

.  170 

350. 

Scarborough, 

• 

•  •  • 

.  169 

*  • 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


327 


GROUP  XV. 

( Fourth  Hundred .) 

PORTS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Five  finished  drawings,  nearly  related  in  style  to  the  Rivers  ; 
but  nobler,  and  two  of  them  (“The  Humber”  and  “Sheer¬ 
ness  ”)  among  the  greatest  of  Turner’s  existing  works. 

The  “Whitby”  and  “Scarborough”  belong  nominally  to 
this  group,  but  in  style  they  are  like  the  Rivers,  with  which  I 
have  placed  them  ;  of  course  consulting  in  these  fillings  up  of 
series,  the  necessary  divisions  into  five  adopted  for  the  sake 
of  portability.  The  seven  drawings  were  illustrated  in  their 
entirety  to  the  best  of  my  power  in  the  text  of  the  work  in 
which  they  were  published — the  “Harbors  of  England.” 

Five  finished  drawings  of  very  high  quality,  made  for  mez¬ 
zotint  engraving,  and  admirably  rendered  by  Mr.  Lupton 
under  Turner’s  careful  superintendence. 


351.  The  Humber, . 378 

352.  The  Medway, . 376 

353.  Portsmouth,  . . 379 

354.  Sheerness,  . . 380 

355.  Ramsgate, . 377 


GROUP  XVI. 

(Fourth  Hundred.) 

Twenty-five  sketches,  chiefly  in  Venice.  Late  time,  extrav¬ 
agant,  and  showing  some  of  the  painter’s  worst  and  final 
faults ;  but  also,  some  of  his  peculiar  gifts  in  a  supreme  de¬ 
gree. 


323 

CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS 

AND 

356. 

The  Ducal  Palace, 

.  351 

357. 

The  Custom  House, 

.  355 

358. 

The  Grand  Canal, 

.  352 

359. 

Casa  Grimani  and  Rialto, 

.  354 

360. 

The  Rialto,  . 

.  353 

361. 

Grand  Canal  above  Rialto, 

.  356 

362. 

On  the  Cross-canal  between  Bridge  of 

Sighs  and 

Rialto, 

.  358 

363. 

The  same,  nearer, 

.  359 

364. 

Cross-canal  near  Arsenal, 

.  357 

365. 

San  Stefano, 

.  360 

366. 

South  side  of  St.  Mark’s, 

.  291 

367. 

Ducal  Palace, 

.  292 

368. 

Boats  on  the  Giudecca,  . 

.  293 

369. 

Steamers, 

.  361 

370. 

9 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

.  362 

371. 

Tours,  .... 

.  363 

372. 

9 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

.  364 

373. 

9 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

.  365 

374. 

9 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

.  366 

375. 

? . 

.  367 

376. 

9 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

.  368 

377. 

? . 

.  369 

378. 

9 

•  •  •  t  •  • 

.  370 

379. 

Arsenal,  Venice,  . 

.  371 

380. 

Fish  Market, 

372 

GROUP  XVII. 

( Fourth  Hundred.) 

VARIOUS.  (LATEST.) 

381. 

? . 

• 

.  381 

382. 

? . 

•  • 

• 

• 

.  382 

383. 

Saumur, 

•  • 

• 

• 

.  383 

384. 

Namur, 

•  • 

• 

• 

.  384 

SKET CITES  BY  TURNER.  329 


385. 

•  •  •  •  •  ,  , 

• 

.  385 

386. 

Chateau  d’Arc? 

.  386 

387. 

North  Transept,  Rouen, 

.  387 

388. 

Avignon,  .... 

.  388 

389. 

Namur,  .... 

.  389 

390. 

9 

•  •  •  •  •  «  # 

.  390 

391. 

Rome, . 

.  251 

392. 

The  Cascades,  Tivoli,  . 

.  254 

393. 

Rome, . 

.  257 

394 

Rome,  The  Coliseum,  . 

.  261 

395. 

Rome,  ..... 

.  270 

396. 

Studies  of  Sky, 

.  296 

397. 

Scotland  ?  .  .  .  . 

.  297 

398. 

The  Tiber,  .... 

.  298 

399. 

The  Capitol  from  Temple  of? 

.  299 

400. 

Bridges  in  the  Campagna, 

.  300 

GROUP  XVIII, 

(Fifth  Hundred.) 

FINEST  COLOR  ON  GRAY.  (LATE.) 

Twenty-five  rapid  studies  in  color  on  gray  paper.  Of  his 
best  late  time,  and  in  his  finest  manner,  giving  more  condi¬ 
tions  of  solid  form  than  have  ever  been  expressed  by  means 
at  once  so  subtle  and  rapid. 


401. 

Full  sails  on  Seine, 

.  101 

402. 

The  breeze  beneath  the  Coteau,  . 

.  102 

403. 

Heavy  barges  in  a  gust, 

.  103 

404. 

French  lugger  under  the  Heve, 

.  104 

405. 

The  steamer,  .... 

.  105 

406. 

Havre,  . . 

.  106 

407. 

Havre,  ...... 

.  107 

408. 

Harfleur, . 

.  108 

330 

CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 

409. 

Honfleur  in  distance,  . 

• 

.  113 

410. 

Honfleur  ?  Compare  Seine  series, 

.  110 

411. 

Cherbourg,  .... 

.  Ill 

412. 

Cherbourg,  .... 

.  112 

413. 

Street  with  canal,  . 

.  109 

414. 

Rouen,  .... 

.  114 

415. 

The  Gray  Castle,  . 

.  115 

416. 

Nantes,  .... 

.  116 

417. 

Nantes  ? 

.  117 

418. 

Angers?  .... 

.  118 

419. 

Beaugency,  .... 

.  119 

420. 

Beaugency,  .... 

.  120 

421. 

Chateau  de  Blois, . 

.  121 

422. 

Chateau  Hamelin, 

.  122 

423. 

? . 

.  123 

424. 

? . 

.  124 

425. 

Tours  ?  The  Scarlet  Sunset, 

.  125 

This  last  magnificent  drawing  belongs  properly  to  the  next 
group,  which  is  almost  exclusively  formed  by  drawings  in 
which  the  main  element  is  color,  at  once  deep  and  glowing. 
But  the  consistency  of  the  group  is  in  color  and  treatment ; 
and  in  the  uniform  determination  of  the  artist  that  every  sub¬ 
ject  shall  at  least  have  a  castle  and  a  crag  in  it — if  possible  a 
river ;  or  by  Fortune’s  higher  favor — blue  sea,  and  that  all 
trees  shall  be  ignored,  as  shady  and  troublesome  excres¬ 
cences.  In  default  of  locality,  I  have  put  here  and  there  a 
word  of  note  or  praise. 


GROUP  XIX. 

( Fifth  Hundred.) 

FINEST  COLOR  ON  GRAY.  (LATEST.) 

426.  Rhine.  (Yellow  raft  essential),  .  .  .  .176 

427.  Too  red  and  yellow.  Full  of  power  in  form,  .  177 

428.  Delicate,  and  very  lovely,  .....  178 


SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


331 


429. 

430. 

431. 

432. 

433. 

434. 

435. 

436. 

437. 

438. 

439. 

440. 

441. 

442. 

443. 

444. 

445. 

446. 

447. 

448. 

449. 

450. 


Rhine  ?  or  Danube  ?  Very  grand, 

Bacharach.  Wonderful,  but  too  wild,  . 

Best  quality — all  but  the  white  chalk,  . 
Heidelberg.  Rosy  tower,  and  a  tree  or  two  ! 

Lovely, . 

Such  things  are ,  though  you  mayn’t  believe  it, 
Dinant,  Meuse.  A  mighty  one,  .... 
Dinant.  Bronzed  sunset.  Firm  and  good,  . 
Luxembourg.  Splendid,  ..... 

Forced,  and  poor, 

Highest  quality,  .... 
Supreme  of  the  set,  except,  . 
Probably  the  grandest  drawing  of 


Luxembourg. 

Luxembourg. 

Luxembourg. 

Luxembourg. 

this  date, 
Luxembourg. 


179 

180 
181 

182 

183 

184 

185 

186 

187 

188 
189 


190 

Too  blue  and  red,  but  noble,  .  191 
Meuse.  Admirable,  but  incomplete,  .  .  .  192 

Coast  of  Genoa  ?  Good,  but  dull,  .  .  .  193 

Coast  of  Genoa  ?  Highest  quality,  .  .  .  194 

Italian  lakes?  Supreme  of  all,  for  color,  .  .  195 

Marseilles  ?  Splendid,  but  harsh,  .  .  .196 

Riviera?  Fine,  but  a  little  hard  and  mannered,  .  197 
Sorrento  coast  ?  Sunset.  Lovely,  .  .  .  198 

Vico  ?  coast  of  Sorrento.  The  same  type :  poorer,  199 
The  Vermilion  Palace,  .  .  .  .  .  .200 


I  know  scarcely  any  of  their  subjects  except  the  Luxem- 
bourgs  ;  and  have  therefore  left  them  in  their  first  rough 
arrangement ;  although  subjects  probably  Genovese  and  South 
Italian  are  mixed  with  others  from  Germany  and  the  Rhine. 


GROUP  XX. 

[Fifth  Hundred.) 

STUDIES  ON  OKAY  FOR  RIVERS  OF  FRANCE.  (LATE.) 

451.  Four  studies  at  Marly  and  Rouen, 

452.  Two  studies  in  France  and 

Two  studies  for  a  picture,  .  ... 


.  27 


332  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


453.  Four  studies  in  France,  .  .  .  .  .28 

454.  Four  studies  in  France,  .....  29 

455.  Two  studies  at  Boulogne  and 

Two  studies  at  Ambleteuse,  .  .  .  .30 

456.  Four  studies  at  Calais,  .  .  .  .  .  .  31  . 

457.  Four  studies  in  France, . 32 

458.  Four  English  marine  studies,  .  .  .  .33 

459.  Rouen,  in  France  :  two  marine  studies,  .  .  34 

460.  On  the  Rhine,  St.  Germain,  Dieppe,  on  the  Seine,  35 

(The  above  ten,  pen  and  ink  on  gray.) 

461.  Orleans,  Tours  (color  on  gray),  .  .  .  .36 

462.  On  the  Seine  ?  (color  on  gray),  .  .  .  .38 

463.  Luxembourg?  Huy  on  the  Meuse  (color  on  gray),  39 

464.  Honfleur,  Honfleur  ?  (color  on  gray),  .  .  .40 

465.  Liber  Studiorum  subjects,  two  Lake  of  Thun, 

Mont  St.  Gothard,  Ville  de  Thun  (pencil),  .  37 


GROUP  XXL 
( Fifth  Hundred.) 

THE  SEINE. 

In  this  series  the  best  drawings  are  as  far  as  possible  put 
together — geographical  order  being  ignored,  rather  than  mix 
the  second-rate  ones  with  those  of  entirely  satisfactory  quality. 
But  the  course  of  subject  for  the  most  part  is  in  ascent  of  the 
river ;  and  the  two  vignettes  begin  and  end  the  whole. 


466.  Chateau  Gaillard.  Vignette,  ....  151 

467.  Havre.  Sunset  in  the  port,  .  .  .  .  .157 

468.  Havre.  Twilight  outside  the  port,  .  .  .  158 

469.  Tancarville,  ........  153 

470.  Tancarville  and  Quilleboeuf,  .....  154 

471.  Quilleboeuf,  ........  127 

472.  Between  Quilleboeuf  and  Villequier,  .  .  .  128 

473.  Honfleur,  . . 159 


SKETCHES 

BY  TURNER. 

333 

474. 

Harfleur, 

•  • 

.  126 

475. 

Caudebec, 

•  • 

.  129 

476. 

Lillebonne,  . 

•  • 

.  134 

477. 

Lillebonne,  . 

•  • 

.  135 

478. 

La  Chaise  de  Gargantua, 

.  130 

479. 

Jumieges, 

•  • 

.  155 

480. 

Vernon, 

•  • 

.  152 

481. 

Rouen,  looking  up  river, 

.  131 

482. 

Rouen,  looking  down  river,  . 

.  132 

483. 

Rouen  Cathedral,  . 

•  • 

.  133 

484. 

Pont  de  l’Arche,  . 

•  • 

.  136 

485. 

Chateau  Gaillard,  . 

.  137 

486. 

Mantes, 

•  • 

.  139 

487. 

Between  Mantes  and  Vernon, 

.  138 

488. 

St.  Germain, 

*  • 

.  146 

489. 

Bridges  of  St.  Cloud  and  Sevres, 

.  147 

490. 

Bridge  of  Sevres,  . 

•  • 

.  148 

491. 

Lantern  of  St.  Cloud, 

•  • 

.  156 

492. 

Barriere  de  Passy, 

•  • 

.  141 

493. 

The  Flower-market, 

•  • 

.  144 

494. 

The  Dog-market,  . 

•  • 

.  143 

495. 

Pont  Neuf,  . 

•  • 

.  142 

496. 

St.  Denis, 

.  145 

497. 

The  Bridge  of  Meulan, 

.  140 

498. 

Melun,  . 

•  • 

.  149 

499. 

Troyes, 

•  • 

.  150 

500. 

Vignette.  Light  towers  of  the  Heve,  . 

.  160 

TERMINAL  INDEX 


In  the  first  column  are  the  numbers  in  the  existing  arrangement ;  in 
the  second  the  numbers  in  this  Catalogue  ;  and  in  the  third  the  page  in 
this  Catalogue.  The  stars  indicate  the  drawings  not  included  in  the 
revised  Catalogue,  as  adapted  rather  for  exhibition  in  the  provinces. 


FIRST  SECTION. 
Kensington  Series.  1  to  153. 


1  . 

31 

• 

306 

25  a 

218 

•  • 

318 

*2 

25  b 

220 

• 

318 

3  a,  b ,  and  c 

1 

• 

304 

26  a 

221 

• 

318 

4 

3 

• 

304 

26  b 

222 

• 

318 

5  a  and  b  . 

33 

• 

306 

27 

54 

• 

308 

6  a  and  b  . 

26 

• 

305 

*28 

*7 

29  a 

224 

• 

318 

8 

52 

• 

308 

29  b 

215 

• 

318 

9 

51 

•  • 

308 

30  a 

204 

• 

318 

10 

6 

• 

304 

30  b 

216 

• 

318 

11 

12 

• 

304 

31  a 

214 

• 

318 

12 

53 

• 

308 

31  b 

202 

• 

318 

13 

7 

• 

304 

*32 

201 

• 

318 

14 

8 

• 

304 

33 

11 

• 

304 

*15 

34 

72 

• 

309 

16  a  to  e 

10 

• 

304 

35 

65 

• 

308 

17  and  c 

5 

• 

304 

*36 

18  a ,  b,  and  c 

4 

• 

304 

*37 

*19 

38 

128 

• 

313 

20  . 

39 

• 

306 

39 

34 

• 

306 

21  a  and  b  . 

9 

• 

304 

40 

35 

• 

306 

22  a  . 

106 

• 

312 

41 

67 

• 

808 

22  6  . 

107 

• 

312 

42 

66 

• 

308 

*23 

*43 

*24 

44 

• 

• 

64 

• 

308 

DRAWINGS  AND  SKETCHES  BY  TURNER.  335 


45 

• 

• 

24 

• 

305 

46 

• 

• 

25 

• 

305 

*47 

*48 

*49 

*50 

51 

36 

• 

306 

52 

38 

• 

306 

53 

56 

• 

308 

54 

37 

• 

306 

55 

50 

• 

307 

*56 

*57 

58 

57 

• 

308 

59 

116 

• 

312 

*60 

20 

# 

305 

61 

41 

306 

*62 

19 

• 

305 

63 

60 

• 

308 

64 

58 

• 

308 

65 

59 

• 

308 

*66 

67 

63 

• 

308 

68 

61 

• 

308 

69 

62 

• 

308 

70 

14 

• 

305 

71 

16 

• 

305 

*72 

73 

17 

• 

305 

*74 

75 

82 

• 

309 

76 

29 

• 

305 

77 

74 

• 

309 

78 

89 

• 

309 

79 

90 

• 

309 

80 

76 

• 

309 

81 

75 

• 

309 

82 

77 

• 

309 

83 

78 

• 

309 

84 

79 

• 

309 

85 

80 

• 

309 

86 

81 

309 

87  a 

334 

• 

325 

87  6 

335 

• 

325 

*88 

*89 

*90 

*91 

*92 


93  . 

94 

• 

310 

94  a  . 

156 

• 

315 

94  6  . 

154 

• 

315 

95  . 

95 

• 

310 

96  . 

96 

• 

310 

97  . 

97 

• 

310 

98  . 

98 

• 

310 

99  . 

99 

# 

310 

100  a  . 

169 

• 

315 

100  6  . 

170 

• 

315 

100  c  . 

100 

• 

310 

101  . 

251 

• 

321 

102  . 

256 

• 

321 

103  . 

252 

• 

321 

104 

105  . 

290 

• 

323 

106 

107  . 

23 

0 

305 

108  . 

271 

• 

322 

*109 


*110 


111  a  . 

• 

291 

• 

.  323 

Ill  6  . 

• 

262 

• 

.  321 

112  . 

• 

45 

• 

.  307 

*113  ’ 

*114 

115  . 

44 

.  307 

116  . 

46 

.  307 

117  . 

47 

.  307 

118  . 

43 

.  307 

119  . 

48 

.  307 

120  . 

18 

.  305 

121  . 

13 

.  304 

122  . 

55 

.  308 

*123 

*124 

125  . 

• 

68 

• 

.  308 

126  . 

• 

69 

• 

.  308 

127  . 

• 

70 

• 

.  308 

128  . 

♦ 

71 

• 

.  309 

*129 

336  CATALOGUE  OF  DRAWINGS  AND 


*130 

142 

.  93 

•  • 

310 

*131 

143 

.  15 

•  • 

305 

132 

73 

.  309 

144 

.  32 

•  • 

306 

133 

83 

.  309 

145 

2 

•  • 

304 

134 

88 

.  309 

146 

.  42 

•  • 

307 

135 

85 

.  309 

147 

.  28 

•  • 

305 

136 

86 

.  309 

148 

.  27 

•  • 

305 

137 

87 

.  309 

149 

.  40 

•  • 

306 

138 

30 

.  305 

*150 

139 

84 

.  309 

*151 

*140 

152 

• 

.  91 

o  • 

310 

*141 

153 

• 

.  92 

■*  , 

310 

SECOND 

SECTION. 

Drawings  now 

FRAMED 

AND  PLACED 

in  Cabinets. 

Nos.  1 

to  400. 

The  stars,  as 

in  the  first  section,  indicate  drawings  recommended  for 

provincial  exhibition. 

*1 

23 

.  223 

o  • 

318 

*2 

24 

.  217 

•  • 

318 

3 

•  • 

213 

• 

.  318 

25 

.  225 

•  • 

318 

*4 

*26 

.  451 

•  • 

331 

5 

•  • 

203 

• 

.  318 

*27 

.  452 

•  • 

331 

*6 

*28 

.  453 

•  • 

332 

*7 

*29 

.  454 

•  • 

332 

*8 

*30 

.  455 

#  # 

332 

9 

•  • 

205 

.  318 

*31 

.  456 

•  • 

332 

10 

•  • 

206 

• 

.  318 

*32 

.  457 

•  • 

332 

11 

•  • 

208 

• 

.  318 

*33 

.  458 

•  • 

332 

12 

•  • 

207 

• 

.  318 

*34 

.  459 

•  • 

332 

*13 

*35 

.  460 

•  • 

332 

14 

•  • 

209 

• 

.  318 

*36 

461 

•  • 

332 

*15 

*37 

.  465 

•  • 

332 

*16 

*38 

.  462 

•  • 

332 

17 

•  • 

210 

• 

.  318 

*39 

.  463 

•  • 

332 

18 

•  • 

211 

• 

.  318 

*40 

464 

•  • 

332 

19 

•  • 

212 

• 

.  318 

41 

• 

140 

•  • 

314 

*20 

42 

• 

139 

•  • 

314 

*21 

*43 

22 

•  • 

219 

• 

.  318 

44 

• 

141 

•  • 

314 

SKETCHES  BT  TURNER.  337 


45 

• 

138 

• 

314 

90 

• 

165 

• 

315 

46 

• 

146 

• 

314 

91 

• 

143 

• 

314 

47 

• 

132 

• 

314 

92 

• 

144 

• 

314 

48 

• 

157 

• 

315 

*93 

49 

• 

147 

• 

314 

94 

• 

177 

• 

315 

50 

• 

142 

• 

314 

95 

• 

145 

• 

314 

51 

• 

181 

• 

316 

96 

• 

137 

• 

314 

52 

• 

182 

• 

316 

97 

• 

179 

• 

315 

53 

• 

183 

• 

316 

98 

• 

180 

• 

315 

54 

• 

184 

• 

316 

99 

• 

178 

• 

315 

55 

# 

185 

• 

316 

100 

• 

135 

• 

314 

56 

• 

186 

• 

316 

101 

• 

401 

• 

329 

57 

• 

187 

• 

316 

102 

• 

402 

• 

329 

58 

• 

188 

• 

316 

103 

• 

403 

• 

329 

59 

• 

189 

• 

316 

104 

• 

404 

• 

329 

60 

• 

190 

• 

316 

105 

• 

405 

• 

329 

61 

• 

191 

• 

316 

106 

• 

406 

• 

329 

62 

• 

192 

• 

316 

107 

• 

407 

• 

329 

63 

• 

193 

• 

316 

108 

• 

408 

• 

329 

64 

• 

194 

• 

316 

109 

• 

413 

• 

330 

65 

• 

195 

• 

316 

110 

• 

410 

• 

330 

66 

• 

196 

• 

316 

111 

• 

411 

• 

330 

67 

• 

197 

• 

316 

112 

« 

412 

• 

330 

68 

• 

198 

• 

316 

113 

• 

409 

• 

330 

69 

• 

199 

• 

316 

114 

• 

414 

• 

330 

70 

• 

200 

• 

316 

115 

• 

415 

• 

330 

*71 

116 

• 

416 

• 

330 

72 

• 

131 

• 

314 

117 

417 

• 

330 

73 

• 

133 

• 

314 

118 

# 

418 

• 

330 

*74 

119 

• 

419 

• 

330 

75 

• 

176 

• 

315 

120 

• 

420 

• 

330 

*76 

121 

• 

421 

• 

330 

77 

• 

166 

• 

315 

122 

• 

422 

• 

330 

78 

• 

159 

• 

315 

123 

423 

• 

330 

79 

• 

160 

• 

315 

124 

• 

424 

• 

330 

80 

• 

134 

• 

314 

125 

• 

425 

• 

330 

81 

• 

136 

• 

314 

126 

• 

474 

• 

333 

82 

• 

158 

# 

315 

127 

• 

471 

• 

332 

83 

• 

148 

• 

315 

128 

• 

472 

• 

332 

84 

129 

• 

475 

• 

333 

85 

• 

149 

• 

315 

130 

• 

478 

• 

333 

86 

• 

161 

• 

315 

131 

• 

481 

• 

333 

87 

• 

162 

• 

315 

132 

• 

482 

• 

333 

88 

• 

163 

• 

315 

133 

• 

483 

• 

333 

89 

• 

164 

• 

315 

134 

• 

476 

• 

333 

22 


338 

CATALOGUE  OF 

DRAWINGS 

AND 

135 

477 

. 

333 

180 

• 

430 

• 

» 

331 

136 

• 

484 

• 

333 

181 

• 

431 

• 

331 

137 

• 

483 

• 

333 

182 

• 

432 

• 

331 

138 

• 

487 

4 

333 

183 

• 

433 

• 

331 

139 

• 

486 

• 

333 

184 

• 

434 

• 

331 

140 

• 

497 

• 

333 

'  185 

• 

435 

• 

331 

141 

• 

492 

• 

333 

186 

• 

436 

• 

331 

142 

• 

495 

• 

333 

187 

• 

437 

• 

331 

143 

• 

494 

• 

333 

188 

• 

438 

• 

331 

144 

• 

493 

• 

333 

189 

• 

439 

• 

331 

145 

• 

496 

• 

333 

190 

• 

440 

• 

331 

146 

• 

488 

• 

333 

191 

• 

441 

• 

331 

147 

• 

489 

• 

333 

192 

• 

442 

• 

331 

148 

• 

490 

• 

333 

193 

• 

443 

• 

331 

149 

• 

498 

• 

333 

194 

• 

444 

• 

331 

150 

• 

499 

• 

333 

195 

• 

445 

• 

331 

151 

• 

466 

• 

332 

196 

• 

446 

• 

331 

152 

• 

480 

• 

333 

197 

• 

447 

9 

331 

153 

• 

469 

• 

332 

198 

• 

448 

9 

331 

154 

• 

470 

• 

332 

199 

• 

449 

9 

331 

155 

• 

479 

• 

333 

200 

• 

450 

9 

331 

156 

• 

491 

• 

333 

201 

• 

246 

• 

320 

157 

« 

467 

• 

332 

202 

• 

240 

• 

320 

158 

• 

468 

• 

332 

203 

• 

231 

• 

320 

159 

• 

473 

• 

332 

204 

• 

232 

• 

320 

160 

• 

500 

• 

333 

205 

• 

228 

• 

320 

161 

• 

336 

• 

326 

206 

• 

248 

• 

320 

162 

• 

337 

• 

326 

207 

• 

233 

• 

320 

163 

• 

338 

• 

326 

208 

• 

235 

• 

320 

164 

• 

339 

• 

326 

209 

Reserved 

165 

• 

340 

• 

326 

210 

• 

226 

• 

320 

166 

• 

341 

• 

326 

211 

• 

• 

230 

• 

320 

167 

• 

342 

• 

326 

212 

• 

229 

• 

320 

168 

• 

343 

• 

326  i 

213 

• 

227 

• 

320 

169 

. 

350 

• 

326 

214 

• 

238 

• 

320 

170 

• 

349 

• 

326 

215 

• 

234 

• 

320 

171 

• 

344 

• 

326 

216 

• 

241 

320 

172 

. 

346 

• 

326 

217 

• 

236 

• 

320 

173 

• 

345 

• 

326 

218 

• 

242 

• 

320 

174 

• 

347 

• 

326 

219 

243 

• 

320 

175 

• 

348 

• 

326 

220 

• 

249 

• 

320 

176 

• 

426 

# 

330 

221 

• 

239 

• 

320 

177 

• 

427 

• 

330 

222 

• 

245 

• 

320 

178 

• 

428 

• 

330 

223 

•  i 

• 

237 

• 

320 

179  , 

• 

429  f 

9 

331 

224 

*  «*. 

> 

244 

• 

320 

SKETCHES  BY  TURNER.  339 


225 

• 

247 

• 

320 

270  . 

# 

395 

• 

329 

226 

• 

301 

• 

324 

271  . 

276 

• 

322 

227 

• 

303 

• 

324 

272  . 

• 

272 

• 

322 

228 

• 

308 

• 

324 

273  . 

• 

266 

• 

322 

229 

• 

309 

• 

324 

274  . 

• 

278 

• 

322 

230 

• 

250 

• 

320 

275  . 

• 

275 

• 

322 

231 

• 

302 

• 

324 

*276 

232 

• 

304 

• 

324 

*277 

233 

• 

305 

• 

324 

278 

234 

• 

306 

• 

324 

*279  . 

• 

153 

• 

315 

235 

• 

307 

• 

324 

280  . 

• 

155 

• 

315 

236 

• 

310 

• 

324 

*281 

237 

• 

311 

• 

325 

*282  . 

• 

151 

• 

315 

238 

• 

312 

• 

325 

*283  . 

• 

152 

• 

315 

239 

• 

313 

• 

325 

*284  . 

• 

150 

• 

315 

240 

• 

314 

• 

325 

285  . 

* 

174 

• 

315 

241 

• 

315 

• 

325 

286  . 

• 

175 

• 

315 

242 

• 

317 

• 

325 

287  . 

• 

172 

• 

315 

243 

• 

316 

• 

325 

288  . 

• 

173 

• 

315 

244 

• 

319 

• 

325 

289  . 

• 

171 

• 

315 

245 

. 

318 

• 

325 

290  . 

• 

168 

• 

315 

246 

• 

320 

• 

325 

*291  . 

• 

366 

328 

247 

• 

321 

• 

325 

*292  . 

• 

367 

• 

328 

248 

• 

322 

• 

325 

*293  . 

• 

368 

• 

328 

249 

• 

323 

• 

325 

*294 

250 

• 

324 

• 

325 

*295 

251 

• 

391 

• 

329 

*296  . 

• 

396 

• 

329 

252 

• 

282 

• 

322 

*297  . 

• 

397 

• 

329 

253 

• 

270 

• 

322 

*298  . 

• 

398 

• 

329 

254 

*299  . 

• 

399 

• 

329 

255 

• 

257 

• 

321 

*300  . 

• 

400 

• 

329 

256 

268 

• 

322 

301  . 

• 

294 

• 

323 

257 

• 

263 

• 

321 

302  . 

• 

281 

• 

322 

258 

• 

269 

• 

322 

303  . 

• 

283 

• 

322 

259 

• 

265 

• 

322 

304  . 

• 

296 

• 

323 

260 

• 

279 

• 

322 

305  . 

# 

293 

• 

323 

261 

• 

394 

• 

329 

306  . 

• 

108 

• 

312 

262 

• 

255 

• 

321 

307  . 

• 

105 

• 

312 

263 

# 

254 

• 

321 

308  . 

• 

115 

• 

312 

264 

• 

258 

• 

321 

309  . 

• 

103 

• 

312 

265 

• 

277 

• 

322 

310  . 

• 

104 

• 

312 

266 

• 

260 

• 

321 

311  . 

• 

101 

• 

312 

267 

• 

264 

• 

321 

312  . 

• 

113 

• 

312 

268 

• 

259 

• 

321 

313  . 

• 

102 

• 

312 

269 

• 

267 

• 

322 

314  . 

• 

114 

• 

312 

340  DRAWINGS  AND  SKETCHES  BY  TURNER. 


*315 

*358 

• 

• 

362 

•  • 

328 

*316 

*359 

• 

• 

363 

• 

328 

*317 

*360 

• 

• 

365 

• 

328 

*318 

*361 

• 

• 

369 

• 

328 

319  . 

• 

125 

• 

313 

*362 

• 

• 

370 

• 

328 

320  . 

• 

122 

• 

313 

*363 

• 

• 

371 

• 

328 

321  . 

• 

123 

• 

313 

*364 

1 

• 

• 

372 

• 

328 

322  . 

• 

127 

• 

313 

*365 

• 

• 

373 

• 

328 

323  . 

• 

124 

• 

313 

*366 

• 

• 

374 

328 

324  . 

• 

121 

• 

313 

*367 

• 

• 

375 

• 

328 

325  . 

• 

126 

• 

313 

*368 

• 

• 

376 

• 

328 

326  . 

• 

253 

• 

321 

*369 

• 

• 

377 

• 

328 

327  . 

• 

280 

• 

322 

*370 

• 

• 

378 

• 

328 

328  . 

• 

274 

• 

322 

*371 

• 

• 

379 

• 

328 

329  . 

• 

286 

• 

323 

*372 

• 

• 

380 

• 

328 

330  . 

• 

287 

323 

373 

• 

• 

119 

• 

313 

331  . 

• 

273 

322 

374 

• 

• 

120 

• 

313 

332  . 

261 

321 

375 

• 

• 

117 

• 

312 

333  . 

• 

292 

• 

323 

*376 

• 

• 

352 

• 

327 

334  . 

• 

297 

• 

323 

*377 

• 

_ 

355 

• 

327 

335  . 

• 

298 

• 

323 

*378 

• 

• 

351 

• 

327 

336  . 

• 

299 

• 

323 

*379 

• 

• 

353 

• 

327 

337  . 

• 

300 

• 

323 

*380 

• 

• 

354 

• 

327 

338  . 

• 

288 

• 

323 

*381 

• 

• 

381 

• 

328 

339  . 

• 

285 

• 

322 

*382 

• 

• 

382 

• 

328 

340  . 

• 

284 

• 

322 

*383 

• 

• 

383 

• 

328 

*341 

*384 

• 

• 

384 

328 

*342 

*385 

• 

• 

385 

• 

329 

*343 

*386 

• 

• 

386 

• 

329 

*344 

*387 

• 

• 

387 

• 

329 

*345 

*388 

• 

• 

388 

• 

329 

346  . 

• 

109 

• 

312 

*389 

• 

• 

389 

• 

329 

347  . 

• 

110 

• 

312 

*390 

• 

• 

390 

• 

329 

348  . 

• 

111 

• 

312 

391 

• 

• 

329 

• 

325 

349  . 

• 

112 

• 

312 

*392 

*350 

393 

• 

• 

331 

• 

325 

*351  . 

• 

356 

• 

328 

394 

• 

• 

330 

• 

325 

*352  . 

• 

358 

• 

328 

395 

• 

• 

333 

• 

325 

*353  . 

• 

360 

• 

328 

396 

• 

• 

327 

• 

325 

*354  . 

• 

359 

• 

328 

397 

• 

• 

325 

• 

325 

*355  . 

• 

357 

• 

328 

398 

• 

• 

328 

• 

325 

*356  . 

• 

361 

• 

328 

399 

• 

• 

326 

• 

325 

*357  . 

• 

364 

• 

• 

328 

400 

• 

• 

332 

i. 

335 

GUIDE 


TO 

TILE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES 


IN  THE 

ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS 


AT 

VENICE. 

ARRANGED  FOR  ENGLISH  TRAVELLERS 

BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN, 

BLADE  PBOFE6SOB  OF  FINE  ART,  OXFORD,  AND  HONORARY  ASSOCIATE  OF  THE  ACADEMY 

OF  VENICE. 


GUIDE,  ETC. 


PABT  I. 

Over  the  entrance  gate  of  the  Academy  are  three  of  the 
most  precious  pieces  of  sculpture  in  Venice  ;  her  native  work, 
dated  ;  and  belonging  to  the  school  of  severe  Gothic  which 
indicates  the  beginning  of  her  Christian  life  in  understanding 
of  its  real  claims  upon  her. 

St.  Leonard  on  the  left,  St.  Christopher  on  the  right,  under 
Gothic  cusped  niches.  The  Madonna  in  the  centre,  under  a 
simple  gable  ;  the  bracket-cornice  beneath  bearing  date  1345 ; 
the  piece  of  sculpture  itself  engaged  in  a  rectangular  panel, 
which  is  the  persistent  sign  of  the  Greek  schools  ;  descending 
from  the  Metopes  of  the  Parthenon. 

You  see  the  infant  sprawls  on  her  knee  in  an  ungainly  man¬ 
ner  ;  she  herself  sits  with  quiet  maiden  dignity,  but  in  no 
manner  of  sentimental  adoration. 

That  is  Venetian  naturalism  ;  showing  their  henceforward 
steady  desire  to  represent  things  as  they  really  (according  to 
the  workman’s  notions)  might  have  existed.  It  begins  first 
in  this  century,  separating  itself  from  the  Byzantine  formal¬ 
ism — the  movement  being  the  same  which  was  led  by  Giotto 
in  Florence  fifty  years  earlier.  These  sculptures  are  the  re¬ 
sult  of  his  influence,  from  Padua,  and  other  such  Gothic  pow¬ 
er,  rousing  Venice  to  do  and  think  for  herself,  instead  of 
letting  her  Greek  subjects  do  all  for  her.  This  is  one  of  her 
first  performances,  independently  of  them.  She  has  not  yet 
the  least  notion  of  making  anybody  stand  rightly  on  their 
feet ;  you  see  how  St.  Leonard  and  St.  Christopher  point  their 


344  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


toes.  Clearly,  until  we  know  liow  to  do  better  than  this,  in 
perspective  and  such  matters,  our  painting  cannot  come  to 
much.  Accordingly,  all  the  Venetian  painting  of  any  impor¬ 
tance  you  are  now  to  see  in  the  Academy  is  subsequent  to 
these  sculptures.  But  these  are,  fortunately,  dated — 1378 
and  1384.  Twenty  years  more  will  bring  us  out  of  the  four¬ 
teenth  century.  And  therefore,  broadly,  all  the  painter’s  art 
of  Venice  begins  in  the  fifteenth  ;  and  we  may  as  well  at  once 
take  note  that  it  ends  with  the  sixteenth.  There  are  only 
these  two  hundred  years  of  painting  in  Venice.  Now,  with¬ 
out  much  pause  in  the  corridor,  though  the  old  well  in  the 
cortile  has  its  notabilities  if  one  had  time — up  the  spiral 
stairs,  and  when  you  have  entered  the  gallery  and  got  }Tour 
admission  tickets  —  (quite  a  proper  arrangement  that  you 
should  pay  for  them  ;  if  I  were  a  Venetian  prefect,  you  should 
pay  a  good  deal  more  for  leave  to  come  to  Venice  at  all,  that 
I  might  be  sure  you  cared  to  come) — walk  straight  forward 
till  you  descend  the  steps  into  the  first  room  in  the  arrange¬ 
ment  of  the  Academy  catalogue.  On  your  right,  at  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  steps,  you  see  a  large  picture  (16)  in  a  series  of 
compartments,  of  which  the  central  one,  the  Crowning  of  the 
Virgin,  was  painted  by  a  Venetian  vicar  (vicar  of  St.  Agnes), 
in  1380.  A  happy,  faithful,  cheerful  vicar  he  must  have  been  ; 
and  any  vicar,  rector,  or  bishop  who  could  do  such  a  thing 
now  would  be  a  blessing  to  his  parish,  and  delight  to  his 
diocese.  Symmetrical,  orderly,  gay,  and  in  the  heart  of  it 
nobly  grave,  this  work  of  the  old  Plebanus  has  much  in  it  of 
the  future  methods  of  Venetian  composition.  The  two  an¬ 
gels  peeping  over  the  arms  of  the  throne  may  remind  you  to 
look  at  its  cusped  arches,  for  we  are  here  in  central  Gothic 
time,  thirty  years  after  the  sea-fayade  of  the  Ducal  Palace  had 
been  built. 

Now,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  over  the  door  lead¬ 
ing  into  the  next  room,  you  see  (1)  in  the  Academy  catalogue 
“The  work  of  Bartholomew  Vivarini  of  Murano,  1464,”  show¬ 
ing  you  what  advance  had  been  made  in  eighty  years.  The 
figures  still  hard  in  outline  —  thin  (except  the  Madonna’s 
throat,  which  always,  in  Venice,  is  strong  as  a  pillar),  and 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


345 


much  marked  in  sinew  and  bone  (studied  from  life,  mind  you, 
not  by  dissection) ;  exquisitely  delicate  and  careful  in  pure 
color  ;  in  character,  portraits  of  holy  men  and  women,  such 
as  then  were.  There  is  no  idealism  here  whatever.  Monks 
and  nuns  had  indeed  faces  and  mien  like  these  saints,  when 
they  desired  to  have  the  saints  painted  for  them. 

A  noble  picture  ;  not  of  any  supreme  genius,  but  complete¬ 
ly  containing  the  essence  of  Venetian  art. 

Next,  going  under  it,  through  the  door,  you  find  yourself 
in  the  principal  room  of  the  Academy,  which  please  cross 
quietly  to  the  window  opposite,  on  the  left  of  which  hangs  a 
large  picture  which  you  will  have  great  difficulty  in  seeing  at 
all,  hung  as  it  is  against  the  light  ;  and  which,  in  any  of  its 
finer  qualities,  you  absolutely  cannot  see  ;  but  may  yet  per¬ 
ceive  what  they  are,  latent  in  that  darkness,  which  is  all  the 
honor  that  the  kings,  nobles,  and  artists  of  Europe  care  to 
bestow  on  one  of  the  greatest  pictures  ever  painted  by 
Christendom  in  her  central  art-power.  Alone  worth  an  entire 
modern  exhibition-building,  hired  fiddlers  and  all ;  here  you 
have  it  jammed  on  a  back  wall,  utterly  unserviceable  to 
human  kind,  the  little  angels  of  it  fiddling  unseen,  unheard 
by  anybody’s  heart.  It  is  the  best  John  Bellini  in  the  Acad¬ 
emy  of  Venice  ;  the  third  best  in  Venice,  and  probably  in  the 
world.  Repainted,  the  right-hand  angel,  and  somewhat 
elsewhere  ;  but  on  the  whole  perfect ;  unspeakably  good,  and 
right  in  all  ways.  Not  inspired  with  any  high  religious 
passion  ;  a  good  man’s  work,  not  an  enthusiast’s.  It  is,  in 
principle,  merely  the  perfecting  of  Vivarini’s ;  the  saints, 
mere  portraits  of  existing  men  and  women ;  the  Madonna, 
idealized  only  in  that  squareness  of  face  and  throat,  not  in 
anywise  the  prettier  for  it,  otherwise  a  quite  commonplace 
Venetian  woman.  Such,  and  far  lovelier,  you  may  see  living  to¬ 
day,  if  you  can  see — and  may  make  manifest,  if  you  can  paint. 

And  now,  }'ou  may  look  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  where 
Titian’s  “  Assumption  ”  has  the  chairs  put  before  it  ;  every¬ 
body  being  expected  to  sit  down,  and  for  once,  without  ask¬ 
ing  what  o’clock  it  is  at  the  railroad  station,  reposefully 
admire. 


346  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Of  which,  hear  first  what  I  wrote,  very  rightly,  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago. 

“The  traveller  is  generally  too  much  struck  by  Titian’s 
great  picture  of  ‘  The  Assumption  ’  to  be  able  to  pay  proper 
attention  to  the  other  works  in  this  gallery.  Let  him,  how¬ 
ever,  ask  himself  candidly  how  much  of  his  admiration  is  de¬ 
pendent  merely  on  the  picture’s  being  larger  than  any  other 
in  the  room,  and  having  bright  masses  of  red  and  blue  in  it ; 
let  him  be  assured  that  the  picture  is  in  reality  not  one  whit 
the  better  either  for  being  large  or  gaudy  in  color,  and  he 
will  then  be  better  disposed  to  give  the  pains  necessary  to  dis¬ 
cover  the  merit  of  the  more  profound  works  of  Bellini  and 
Tintoret.  ” 

I  wrote  this,  I  have  said,  very  rightly,  not  quite  rightly. 
For  if  a  picture  is  good,  it  is  better  for  being  large,  because 
it  is  more  difficult  to  paint  large  than  small ;  and  if  color  is 
good,  it  may  be  better  for  being  bright. 

Nay,  the  fault  of  this  picture,  as  I  read  it  now,  is  in  not  be¬ 
ing  bright  enough.  A  large  piece  of  scarlet,  two  large  pieces 
of  crimson,  and  some  very  beautiful  blue,  occupy  about  a 
fifth  part  of  it  ;  but  the  rest  is  mostly  fox  color  or  dark 
brown  :  majority  of  the  apostles  under  total  eclipse  of  brown. 
St.  John,  there  being  nobody  else  handsome  to  look  at,  is 
therefore  seen  to  advantage ;  also  St.  Peter  and  his  beard  ; 
but  the  rest  of  the  lower  canvas  is  filled  with  little  more  than 
flourishings  of  arms  and  flingings  of  cloaks,  in  shadow  and 
light. 

However,  as  a  piece  of  oil  painting,  and  what  artists  call 
“  composition,”  with  entire  grasp  and  knowledge  of  the  ac¬ 
tion  of  the  human  body,  the  perspectives  of  the  human  face, 
and  the  relations  of  shade  to  color  in  expressing  form,  the 
picture  is  deservedly  held  unsurpassable.  Enjoy  of  it  what 
you  can  ;  but  of  its  place  in  the  history  of  Venetian  art  ob¬ 
serve  these  three  following  points : 

I.  The  throned  Madonnas  of  Vivarini  and  Bellini  were  to 
Venice  what  the  statue  of  Athena  in  the  Brazen  House  was  to 
Athens.  Not  at  all  supposed  to  be  Athena,  or  to  be  Madon¬ 
nas  ;  but  symbols,  by  help  of  which  they  conceived  the  pres- 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  347 


ence  with  them  of  a  real  Goddess.  But  this  picture  of  Ti¬ 
tian’s  does  not  profess  to  symbolize  any  Virgin  here  with  us, 
but  only  to  show  how  the  Virgin  was  taken  away  from  us  a 
long  time  ago.  And  professing  to  represent  this,  he  does  not 
in  the  least  believe  his  own  representation,  nor  expect  any¬ 
body  else  to  believe  it.  He  does  not,  in  his  heart,  believe  the 
Assumption  ever  took  place  at  all.  He  is  merely  putting  to¬ 
gether  a  stage  decoration  of  clouds,  little  boys,  with  wings 
stuck  into  them,  and  pantomime  actors  in  studied  positions, 
to  amuse  his  Venice  and  himself. 

II.  Though  desirous  of  nothing  but  amusement,  he  is  not, 
at  heart,  half  so  much  amused  by  his  work  as  John  Bellini,  or 
one-quarter  so  much  amused  as  the  innocent  old  vicar.  On 
the  contrary,  a  strange  gloom  has  been  cast  over  him,  he 
knows  not  why  ;  but  he  likes  all  his  colors  dark,  and  puts 
great  spaces  of  brown,  and  crimson  passing  into  black,  where 
the  older  painters  would  have  made  all  lively.  Painters  call 
this  “  chiaroscuro.”  So  also  they  may  call  a  thunder-cloud  in 
the  sky  of  spring ;  but  it  means  more  than  light  and  shade. 

HI.  You  see  that  in  all  the  three  earlier  pictures  everybody 
is  quiet.  Here,  everybody  is  in  a  bustle.  If  you  like  to  look  at 
my  pamphlet  on  the  relation  of  Tintoret  to  Michael  Angelo,  you 
will  see  how  this  comes  to  pass,  and  what  it  means.  And  that 
is  all  I  care  for  your  noticing  in  the  Assumption,  just  now. 

Next,  look  on  right  and  left  of  it,  at  the  two  dark  pictures 
over  the  doors  (63,  25). 

Darkness  visible,  with  flashes  of  lightning  through  it.  The 
thunder-cloud  upon  us,  rent  with  fire. 

Those  are  Tintorets  ;  finest  possible  Tintorets  ;  best  pos¬ 
sible  examples  of  what,  in  absolute  power  of  painting,  is  su- 
premest  work,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  all  the  world. 

Nothing  conies  near  Tintoret  for  colossal  painter’s  power  as 
such.  But  you  need  not  think  to  get  any  good  of  these  pic¬ 
tures  ;  it  would  take  you  twenty  years’  work  to  understand 
the  fineness  of  them  as  painting  ;  and  for  the  rest,  there  is 
little  good  in  them  to  be  got.  Adam  and  Eve  no  more  sat  in 
that  warm-weather  picnic  manner,  helping  each  other  politely 
to  apples,  on  the  occasion  of  their  fall,  than  the  Madonna  went 


348  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


up  all  bending  about  in  ber  red  and  blue  cloak  on  tbe  occasion 
of  ber  Assumption.  But  of  tbe  wrong  and  tbe  truth,  tbe  error 
and  tbe  glory,  of  these  pictures,  I  have  no  time  to  speak  now  ; 
nor  you  to  bear.  All  that  you  have  to  notice  is  that  painting 
has  now  become  a  dark  instead  of  bright  art,  and  in  many 
ways  a  frightful  and  unpleasant  art,  or  else  I  will  add  once 
for  all,  referring  you  for  proof  of  it  to  tbe  general  examples  of 
Venetian  work  at  this  late  epoch,  supplied  as  a  luxury  to  for¬ 
eign  courts,  a  lascivious  art.* 

Nevertheless,  up  to  tbe  time  when  Tintoret  painted  tbe  Cru¬ 
cifixion  in  tbe  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  Venice  bad  not  in  heart 
abjured  ber  religion.  Tbe  time  when  tbe  last  chord  of  its  faith 
gives  way  cannot  be  discerned,  to-day  and  hour  ;  but  in  that 
day  and  boar  of  which,  for  external  sign,  we  may  best  take 
tbe  death  of  Tintoret  in  1594,  tbe  Arts  of  Venice  are  at  an  end. 

I  have  therefore  now  shown  you  the  complete  course  of 
their  power,  from  1380  at  tbe  Academy  gates,  to  1594 — say, 
broadly,  two  centuries  (ber  previous  art  being  only  arcliitect- 
ual,  mosaic,  or  decorative  sculpture).  We  will  now  go  through 
tbe  rooms,  noticing  what  is  best  worth  notice  in  each  of  tbe 
epochs  defined  ;  essentially,  you  observe,  three.  Tbe  first  we 
may  call  tbe  Vivarini  epoch,  bright,  innocent,  more  or  less 
elementary,  entirely  religious  art  —  reaching  from  1400  to 
1480  ;  the  second  (which  for  reasons  presently  to  be  shown, 
we  will  call  the  Carpaccian  epoch),  sometimes  classic  and 
mythic,  as  well  as  religious,  1480-1520  ;  the  third,  supreme¬ 
ly  powerful  art  corrupted  by  taint  of  death,  1520-1600,  which 
we  will  call  the  Tintoret  epoch. 

Of  course  the  lives  of  the  painters  run  in  and  out  across 


*  One  copy  of  Titian’s  work  bearing  such  commercial  value,  and  show¬ 
ing  what  was  briefly  the  Gospel  preached  by  Missionary  Venice  to  for¬ 
eign  nations  in  the  sixteenth  century,  you  will  find  presently  in  the 
narrow  corridor,  No.  347  :  on  which  you  will  usually  also  find  some 
modern  copyist  employed,  for  missionary  purposes  ;  but  never  on  a 
Vivarini.  And  in  thus  becoming  dark,  terrific,  and  sensual,  Venetian 
art  led  the  way  to  the  mere  naturalism  and  various  baseness  of  follow¬ 
ing  European  art  with  the  rubbish  of  which  that  corridor  (Sala  ix.. 
Numbers  27G  to  353)  is  mostly  filled. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  349 


these  limits  ;  yet  if  you  fasten  these  firmly  in  your  mind— 80, 
40,  80 — you  will  find  you  have  an  immense  advantage  and 
easy  grip  of  the  whole  history  of  Venetian  art. 

In  the  first  epoch,  however,  I  do  not  mean  to  detain  you ; 
but  the  room  you  first  entered,  into  which  I  will  now  ask  you 
to  return,  is  full  of  pictures  which  you  will  find  interesting  if 
you  have  time  to  decipher  them,  and  care  for  Christianity  and 
its  expressions.  One  only  I  will  ask  you  to  look  at,  after 
Titian’s  Assumption ;  the  little  Ascension  by  Nicolo  Semite- 
colo,  low  down,  on  the  right  of  the  vicar’s  picture  in  Number 
16.  For  that  Ascension  is  painted  in  real  belief  that  the  As¬ 
cension  did  take  place  ;  and  its  sincerity  ought  to  be  pleasant 
to  you,  after  Titian’s  pretence. 

Now,  returning  up  the  steps,  and  taking  the  corridor  to 
your  right,  opposite  the  porter’s  table,  enter  the  little  room 
through  the  first  door  on  your  right  ;  and  therein,  just  on 
your  right  as  you  go  in,  is  Mantegna’s  St.  George,  No.  273  ; 
to  which  give  ten  minutes  quietly,  and  examine  it  with  a  mag¬ 
nifying  glass  of  considerable  power.  For  in  that  you  have  a 
perfect  type  of  the  Italian  methods  of  execution  corresponding 
to  the  finish  of  the  Dutch  painters  in  the  north  ;  but  far  more 
intellectual  and  skilful.  You  cannot  see  more  wonderful  work 
in  minute  drawing  with  the  point  of  the  brush  ;  the  virtue  of 
it  being  that,  not  only  every  touch  is  microscopically  minute, 
but  that,  in  this  minuteness,  every  touch  is  considered,  and 
every  touch  right.  It  is  to  be  regarded,  however,  only  as  a 
piece  of  workmanship.  It  is  wholly  without  sentiment,  though 
the  distant  landscape  becomes  affecting  through  its  detailed 
truth — the  winding  road  under  the  rocks,  and  the  towered 
city,  being  as  full  of  little  pretty  things  to  be  searched  out  as 
a  natural  scene  would  be. 

And  I  have  brought  you  first,  in  our  now  more  complete 
review,  to  this  picture,  because  it  shows  more  clearly  than  any 
other  through  what  tremendous  work  the  Italian  masters  ob¬ 
tained  their  power. 

Without  the  inherited  strength  won  by  this  precision  of 
drawing  in  the  earlier  masters,  neither  Titian  nor  Tintoiet 
could  have  existed. 


350  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Return  into  the  corridor,  and  walk  along  it  to  the  end  with¬ 
out  wasting  time  ; — there  is  a  Bonifazio,  No.  326,  worth  a 
painter’s  while  to  stop  at,  but  in  general  mere  Dutch  rubbish. 
Walk  straight  on,  and  go  in  at  the  last  door  on  the  left,  with¬ 
in  which  you  will  find 

456,  Cima  da  Conegliano.  An  entirely  sincere  and  noble 
picture  of  the  central  epoch.  Not  supreme  in  any  artistic 
quality,  but  good  and  praiseworthy  in  all  ;  and,  as  a  concep¬ 
tion  of  its  subject,  the  most  beautiful  you  will  find  in  Venice. 
Grudge  no  time  upon  it  ;  but  look  at  nothing  else  here  ;  re¬ 
turn  into  the  corridor,  and  proceed  by  it  into  the  great  room. 

Opposite  you  is  Titian’s  great  “  Presentation  of  the  Virgin,” 
interesting  to  artists,  and  an  unusually  large  specimen  of 
Titian’s  rough  work.  To  me,  simply  the  most  stupid  and  un¬ 
interesting  picture  ever  painted  by  him  :  if  you  can  find  any¬ 
thing  to  enjoy  in  it,  you  are  very  welcome.  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say  of  it,  except  that  the  color  of  the  landscape  is  as 
false  as  a  piece  of  common  blue  tapestry,  and  that  the  “  cele¬ 
brated  ”  old  woman  with  her  basket  of  eggs  is  as  dismally 
ugly  and  vulgar  a  filling  of  spare  corner  as  was  ever  daubed 
on  a  side-scene  in  a  hurry  at  Drury  Lane. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room,  543,  is  another  wide  waste 
of  canvas;  miserable  example  of  the  W'Ork  subsequent  to  Paul 
Veronese  ;  doubly  and  trebly  mischievous  in  caricaturing  and 
defiling  all  that  in  the  master  himself  is  noble  :  to  look  long 
at  such  a  thing  is  enough  to  make  the  truest  lovers  of  Vene¬ 
tian  art  ashamed  of  Venice,  and  of  themselves.  It  ought  to 
be  taken  down  and  burned. 

Turn  your  back  to  it,  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  and  make 
up  your  mind  for  a  long  stand  ;  for  opposite  you,  so  standing, 
is  a  Veronese  indeed,  of  the  most  instructive  and  noble  kind 
(489)  ;  and  beneath  it,  the  best  picture  in  the  Academy  of 
Venice,  Carpaccio’s  “Presentation”  (488). 

Of  the  Veronese,  I  will  say  nothing  but  that  the  main  in¬ 
structiveness  of  it  is  in  the  exhibition  of  his  acquired  and  in¬ 
evitable  faults  (the  infection  of  his  fera),  with  his  own  quiet¬ 
est  and  best  virtues.  It  is  an  artist’s  picture,  and  even  only 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  551 


to  be  rightly  felt  by  very  good  artists  ;  the  aerial  perspectives 
in  it  being  extremely  subtle,  and  rare,  to  equal  degree,  in  the 
painter’s  work.  To  the  general  spectator,  I  will  only  observe 
that  he  has  free  leave  to  consider  the  figure  of  the  Virgin  exe¬ 
crable  ;  but  that  I  hope,  if  he  has  a  good  opera-glass,  he  will 
find  something  to  please  him  in  the  little  rose-bush  in  the 
glass  vase  on  the  balustrade.  I  would  myself  give  all  the 
bushes — not  to  say  all  the  trees — and  all  the  seas,  of  Claude 
and  Poussin,  in  one  bunch  and  one  deluge — for  this  little  rose¬ 
bush  and  its  bottle. 

488.  “The  Presentation  in  the  Temple.”  Signed  “Victor 
Carpaccio,  1510.”  From  the  Church  of  St.  Job. 

You  have  no  similar  leave,  however,  good  general  spectator, 
to  find  fault  with  anything  here  !  You  may  measure  yourself, 
outside  and  in — your  religion,  your  taste,  your  knowledge  of 
art,  your  knowledge  of  men  and  things — by  the  quantity  of 
admiration  which  honestly,  after  due  time  given,  you  can  feel 
for  this  picture. 

You  are  not  required  to  think  the  Madonna  pretty,  or  to 
receive  the  same  religious  delight  from  the  conception  of  the 
scene,  which  you  would  rightly  receive  from  Angelico,  Filippo 
Lippi,  or  Perugino.  This  is  essentially  Venetian — prosaic, 
matter  of  fact — retaining  its  supreme  common-sense  through 
all  enthusiasm. 

Nor  are  you  required  to  think  this  a  first-rate  work  in  Vene¬ 
tian  color.  This  is  the  best  picture  in  the  Academy  precisely 
because  it  is  not  the  best  piece  of  color  there  ;  because  the 
great  master  has  subdued  his  own  main  passion,  and  restrained 
his  color-faculty,  though  the  best  in  Venice,  that  you  might 
not  say  the  moment  you  came  before  the  picture,  as  you  do  of 
the  Paris  Bourdone  (492),  “  What  a  piece  of  color !  ” 

To  Paris,  the  Duke,  the  Senate,  and  the  Miracle  are  all 
merely  vehicles  for  flashes  of  scarlet  and  gold  on  marble  and 
silk  ;  but  Carpaccio,  in  this  picture  of  the  Presentation,  does 
not  want  you  to  think  of  his  color,  but  of  your  Christ. 

To  whom  the  Madonna  also  is  subjected — to  whom  all  is 
subjected ;  you  will  not  find  such  another  Infant  Christ  in 


352  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Venice.  (But  always  look  carefully  at  Paul  Veronese’s,  for  it 
is  one  of  the  most  singular  points  in  the  character  of  this 
usually  decorative  and  inexpressive  painter,  that  his  Infant 
Christs  are  always  beautiful.) 

For  the  rest,  I  am  not  going  to  praise  Carpaccio’s  work. 
Give  time  to  it ;  and  if  you  don’t  delight  in  it,  the  essential 
faculty  of  enjoying  good  art  is  wanting  in  you,  and  I  can’t 
give  it  to  you  by  ten  minutes’  talk  ;  but  if  you  begin  really  to 
feel  the  picture,  observe  that  its  supreme  merit  is  in  the  ex¬ 
actly  just  balance  of  all  virtue — detail  perfect,  yet  inconspic¬ 
uous  ;  composition  intricate  and  severe,  but  concealed  under 
apparent  simplicity  ;  and  painter’s  faculty  of  the  supremest, 
used  nevertheless  with  entire  subjection  of  it  to  intellectual 
purpose.  Titian,  compared  to  Carpaccio,  paints  as  a  circus- 
rider  rides — there  is  nothing  to  be  thought  of  in  him  but  his 
riding.  But  Carpaccio  paints  as  a  good  knight  rides  ;  his  rid¬ 
ing  is  the  least  of  him  ;  and  to  himself — unconscious  in  its 
ease. 

When  you  have  seen  all  you  can  of  the  picture  as  a  whole, 
go  near,  and  make  out  the  little  pictures  on  the  edge  of  St. 
Simeon’s  robe  ;  four  quite  lovely  ones  ;  the  lowest  admitting, 
to  make  the  whole  perfect,  delightful  grotesque  of  fairy  an¬ 
gels  within  a  heavenly  castle  wall,  thrusting  down  a  troop  of 
supine  devils  to  the  deep.  The  other  three,  more  beautiful 
in  their  mystery  of  shade  ;  but  I  have  not  made  them  out  yet. 
There  is  one  solemn  piece  of  charge  to  a  spirit  folding  its  arms 
in  obedience  ;  and  I  think  the  others  must  be  myths  of  crea¬ 
tion,  but  can’t  tell  yet,  and  must  now  go  on  quickly  to  note 
merely  the  pictures  you  should  look  at,  reserving  talk  of  them 
for  a  second  number  of  this  Guide. 

483,  500,  524,  containing  all  you  need  study  in  Bonifazio. 
In  500,  he  is  natural  and  does  his  best ;  in  483,  he  pretends  to 
religion,  which  he  has  not ;  in  524,  to  art,  wdiich  he  has  not. 
The  last  is  a  monstrous  example  of  the  apathy  with  which  tho 
later  Italian  artists,  led  by  Raphael,  used  this  horrible  subject 
to  exhibit  their  ingenuity  in  anatomical  posture,  and  excite 
the  feeble  interest  of  vulgar  spectators. 


TEE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  353 


503.  Quiet  Tintoret ;  very  noble  in  senators,  poor  in  Ma¬ 
donna. 

519.  Quiet  Paul  Veronese  ;  very  noble  in  St.  Jerome’s  robe 
and  Lion,  and  in  little  St.  John’s  back.  Not  particularly  so 
in  anybody’s  front,  but  a  first-rate  picture  in  the  picture  way. 

507.  Dashing  Tintoret ;  fearfully  repainted,  but  grand  yet 
in  the  lighter  figures  of  background. 

496-502.  Dashing  Paul  Veronese — splendid  in  art ;  in  con¬ 
ception  of  Evangelists — all  that  Venice  wanted  of  them,  at 
that  day.  You  must  always,  however,  judge  her  as  you  would 
a  sailor — what  would  be  ridiculous  or  bombastic  in  others  has 
often  some  honesty  in  it  with  her.  Think  of  these  Evangelists 
as  a  kind  of  figure-heads  of  ships. 

Enter  now  the  great  room  with  the  Veronese  at  the  end  of 
it,  for  which  the  painter  (quite  rightly)  was  summoned  before 
the  Inquisition  of  State  :  you  will  find  his  examination,  trans¬ 
lated  by  a  friend  to  whom  I  owe  much  in  my  old  Venetian 
days,  in  the  Appendix  to  my  second  Guide  ;  but  you  must  not 
stop  now  at  this  picture,  if  you  are  in  a  hurry,  for  you  can  see 
the  like  of  it,  and  better,  in  Paris  ;  but  you  can  see  nothing  in 
all  the  world,  out  of  Venice,  like  certain  other  pictures  in  this 
room. 

Glancing  round  it,  you  see  it  may  be  generally  described  a3 
full  of  pictures  of  street  architecture,  with  various  more  or  less 
interesting  transactions  going  on  in  the  streets.  Large  Cana¬ 
lettos,  in  fact  ;  only  with  the  figures  a  little  more  interesting 
than  Canaletto’s  figures  ;  and  the  buildings,  on  the  whole,  red 
and  white  or  brown  and  white,  instead  of,  as  with  Canaletto, 
black  and  white.  And  on  consideration,  and  observation,  you 
will  perceive,  if  you  have  any  perception  of  color,  that  V  ene¬ 
tian  buildings,  and  most  others,  being  really  red  and  white  or 
brown  and  white,  not  black  and  white,  this  is  really  the  right 
manner  of  painting  them,  and  these  are  true  and  sufficient  rep¬ 
resentations  of  streets,  of  landscapes,  and  of  interiors  of  houses, 
with  the  people,  as  I  said,  either  in  St.  Mark’s  Place,  555,  or 
23 


354  GUIDE  TO  TIIE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


at  Grand  Cairo,  540,  or  before  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo  at 
Rome,  546,  or  by  the  old  Rialto  here,  564,  being  themselves 
also  more  or  less  interesting,  if  you  will  observe  them,  first  in 
their  dresses,  which  are  very  curious  and  pretty,  and  after¬ 
ward  in  many  other  particulars,  of  which  for  the  present  I 
must  leave  you  to  make  out  what  you  can  ;  for  of  the  pictures 
by  Carpaccio  in  this  room  I  must  write  an  entirely  separate 
account  (begun  already  for  one  of  them  only,  the  Dream  of 
St.  Ursula,  533),*  and  of  the  Gentile  Bellini  you  can  only  know 
the  value  after  good  study  of  St.  Mark’s  itself.  Observe,  how¬ 
ever,  at  least  in  this,  and  in  548  and  564,  the  perfectly  true 
representation  of  what  the  Architecture  of  Venice  was  in  her 
glorious  time  ;  trim,  dainty — red  and  white  like  the  blossom 
of  a  carnation — touched  with  gold  like  a  peacock’s  plumes, 
and  frescoed,  even  to  its  chimney-pots,  with  fairest  arabesque 
— its  inhabitants,  and  it  together,  one  harmony  of  work  and 
life — all  of  a  piece,  you  see  them,  in  the  wonderful  palace- 
perspective  on  the  left  in  548,  with  everybody  looking  out  of 
their  windows.  And  in  this  picture  of  St.  Mark’s,  painted  by 
John  Bellini’s  good  brother,  true  as  he  could,  hue  for  hue,  and 
ray  for  ray,  you  see  that  all  the  tossing  of  its  now  white  marble 
foliage  against  the  sky,  which  in  my  old  book  on  Venice  I  com¬ 
pared  to  the  tossed  spray  of  sea  waves  (believing  then,  as  I 
do  still,  that  the  Venetians  in  their  living  and  breathing  days 
of  art  were  always  influenced  in  their  choice  of  guiding  lines 
of  sculpture  by  their  sense  of  the  action  of  wind  or  sea),  were 
not,  at  all  events,  meant  to  be  like  sea  foam  white  in  anger, 
but  like  light  spray  in  morning  sunshine.  They  were  all  over¬ 
laid  with  gold. 

Not  yet  in  vicious  luxury.  Those  porches  of  St.  Mark’s,  so 
please  you,  English  friends,  were  not  thus  gilt  for  the  wedding 
of  Miss  Kilmansegg,  nor  are  those  pictures  on  the  vaults  ad¬ 
vertisements,  like  yours  in  your  railway  stations ;  all  the  arts 


*  Of  which,  with  her  legend,  if  you  care  to  hear  more,  you  will  find 
more  in  the  three  numbers  of  “  Fors  Clavigera  ”  now  purchaseable  of  my 
agent  in  Venice  (Mr.  Bunney,  Fondamenta  San  Biagio,  2143),  from 
whom  all  my  recent  publications  on  Venice  may  be  also  procured. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  355 


of  England  bent  on  recommending  you  cheap  bathing  ma¬ 
chines  and  painless  pills.  Here  are  purer  baths  and  medicines 
told  of  ;  here  have  been  more  ingenious  engineers.  From  the 
Sinai  desert,  from  the  Sion  rock,  from  the  defiles  of  Lebanon, 
met  here  the  ghosts  of  ancient  builders  to  oversee  the  work, 
of  dead  nations,  to  inspire  it  —  Bezaleel  and  the  maids  of 
Israel  who  gave  him  their  jewels  ;  Hiram  and  his  forgers  in 
the  vale  of  Siddim,  his  woodmen  of  the  Syrian  forests  ;  David 
the  lord  of  war,  and  his  Son  the  Lord  of  Peace,  and  the  mul¬ 
titudes  that  kept  holy  day  when  the  cloud  filled  the  house  they 
had  built  for  the  Lord  of  All — these  in  their  myriads  stood 
by,  to  watch,  to  guide  ;  it  might  have  been,  had  Venice  willed, 
to  bless. 

Literally  so,  mind  you.  The  wreathen  work  of  the  lily  cap¬ 
itals  and  their  archivolts,  the  glass  that  keeps  unfaded  their 
color — the  design  of  that  color  itself,  and  the  stories  that  are 
told  in  the  glow  of  it — all  these  wrere  brought  by  the  Jew  or  the 
Tyrian,  bringing  also  the  treasures  of  Persia  and  Egypt ;  and 
with  these,  laboring  beside  them  as  one  brought  up  with  them, 
stood  the  Athena  of  Corinth,  and  the  Sophia  of  Byzantium. 

Not  in  vicious  luxury  these,  yet — though  in  Tyrian  splendor 
glows  St.  Mark’s  :  nor  those  quiet  and  trim  little  houses  on 
the  right,  joining  the  Campanile.  You  are  standing  (the 
work  is  so  completely  done  that  you  may  soon  fancy  yourself 
so)  in  old  St.  Mark’s  Place,  at  the  far  end  of  it,  before  it  was 
enlarged  ;  you  may  find  the  stone  marking  the  whole  length 
of  it  in  the  pavement,  just  opposite  the  easternmost  door  of 
the  Cafe  Florian.  And  there  were  none  of  those  pompous 
loggie  then,  where  you  walk  up  and  down  before  the  cafe, 
but  these  trim,  dainty,  happily  inhabited  houses,  mostly  in 
white  marble  and  gold,  with  disks  of  porphyry  ;  and  look 
at  the  procession  coming  toward  you  underneath  them  - 
what  a  bed  of  moving  flowers  it  is !  Not  Birnam  Wood  com¬ 
ing,  gloomy  and  terrible,  but  a  very  bloom  and  garland  of 
good  and  knightly  manhood — its  Doge  walking  in  the  midst 
of  it — simple,  valiant,  actual,  beneficent,  magnificent  king.  Do 
you  see  better  sights  than  this  in  St.  Mark  s  Place  now,  in 
jour  dajs  of  progress? 


356  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Now,  just  to  get  some  little  notion  how  the  figures  are 
“put  in”  by  these  scrupulous  old  formalists,  take  the  pains 
to  look  closely  at  the  first  you  come  upon  of  the  procession 
on  the  extreme  left — the  three  musicians,  namely,  with  the 
harp,  violin,  aud  lute.  Look  at  them  as  portraits  only  ;  you 
will  not  find  more  interesting  ones  in  all  the  rooms.  And 
then  you  will  do  well  to  consider  the  picture  as  a  reality  for 
a  little  while,  and  so  leave  the  Academy  with  a  vision  of  liv¬ 
ing  Venice  in  your  heart.  We  will  look  at  no  more  painting 
to-day. 


PART  IL 

If  you  have  looked  with  care  at  the  three  musicians,  or  any 
other  of  the  principal  figures,  in  the  great  town  or  landscape 
views  in  this  principal  room,  you  will  be  ready  now  with  better 
patience  to  trace  the  order  of  their  subjects,  and  such  character 
or  story  as  their  treatment  may  develop.  I  can  only  help 
you,  however,  with  Carpaccio’s,  for  I  have  not  been  able  to 
examine,  or  much  think  of,  Mansueti’s,  recognizing,  never¬ 
theless,  much  that  is  delightful  in  them. 

By  Carpaccio,  then,  in  this  room,*  there  are  in  all  eleven 
important  pictures,  eight  from  the  legend  of  St.  Ursula,  and 
three  of  distinct  subjects.  Glance  first  at  the  series  of  St. 
Ursula  subjects,  in  this  order  : 

I.  — 539.  Maurus  the  King  of  Brittany  receives  the  English 
ambassadors :  and  has  talk  with  his  daughter  touching  their 
embassy. 

II.  — 533.  St.  Ursula’s  Dream. 

HI. — 537.  King  Maurus  dismisses  the  English  ambassa¬ 
dors  with  favorable  answer  from  his  daughter.  (This  is  the 
most  beautiful  piece  of  painting  in  the  rooms.) 


*  Or  at  least  in  the  Academy  :  the  arrangement  may  perhaps  he  altered 
before  this  Guide  can  be  published  ;  at  all  events  we  must  not  count 
on  it. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS .  35 T 


IV .  — 549.  The  King  of  England  receives  the  Princess’s 
favorable  answer. 

V.  — 542.  The  Prince  of  England  sets  sail  for  Brittany _ 

there  receives  his  bride,  and  embarks  with  her  on  pilgrimage. 

VI.  — 546.  The  Prince  of  England  and  his  bride,  voyaging 
on  pilgrimage  with  the  eleven  thousand  maidens,  arrive  at 
Borne,  and  are  received  by  the  Pope,  who,  “  with  certain  Car¬ 
dinals,”  joins  their  pilgrimage.  (The  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
series,  next  to  the  Dream.) 

VII.  — 544.  The  Prince,  with  his  bride,  and  the  Pope  with 
his  Cardinals,  and  the  eleven  thousand  maids,  arrive  in  the 
land  of  the  Huns,  and  receive  martyrdom  there.  In  the 
second  part  of  the  picture  is  the  funeral  procession  of  St. 
Ursula. 

VIII.  — St.  Ursula,  with  her  maidens,  and  the  pilgrim  Pope, 
and  certain  Cardinals,  in  glory  of  Paradise.  I  have  always 
forgotten  to  look  for  the  poor  bridegroom  in  this  picture,  and 
on  looking,  am  by  no  means  sure  of  him.  But  I  suppose  it  is 
he  who  holds  St.  Ursula’s  standard.  The  architecture  and 
landscape  are  unsurpassably  fine  ;  the  rest  much  imperfect ; 
but  containing  nobleness  only  to  be  learned  by  long  dwelling 
on  it. 

In  this  series,  I  have  omitted  one  picture,  544,  which  is  of 
scarcely  any  interest — except  in  its  curious  faults  and  unwor¬ 
thiness.  At  all  events,  do  not  at  present  look  at  it,  or  think 
of  it  ;  but  let  us  examine  all  the  rest  without  hurry. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  we  find  this  curious  fact,  intensely 
characteristic  of  the  fifteenth  as  opposed  to  the  nineteenth 
century — that  the  figures  are  true  and  natural,  but  the  land¬ 
scape  false  and  unnatural,  being  by  such  fallacy  made  entirely 
subordinate  to  the  figures.  I  have  never  approved  of,  and 
only  a  little  understand,  this  state  of  things.  The  painter  is 
never  interested  in  the  ground,  but  only  in  the  creatures  that 
tread  on  it.  A  castle  tower  is  left  a  mere  brown  bit  of  canvas, 
and  all  his  coloring  kept  for  the  trumpeters  on  the  top  of  it. 
The  fields  are  obscurely  green  ;  the  sky  imperfectly  blue  ;  and 
the  mountains  could  not  possibly  stand  on  the  very  small 
foundations  they  are  furnished  with. 


358  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Here  is  a  Religion  of  Humanity,  and  nothing  else — to  pur¬ 
pose  !  Nothing  in  the  universe  thought  worth  a  look,  unless 
it  is  in  service  or  foil  to  some  two-legged  creature  showing 
itself  off  to  the  best  advantage.  If  a  flower  is  in  a  girl’s  hair, 
it  shall  be  painted  properly  ;  but  in  the  fields,  shall  be  only  a 
spot ;  if  a  striped  pattern  is  on  a  boy’s  jacket,  we  paint  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  it,  and  drop  not  a  stitch  ;  but  the  striped 
patterns  of  vineyard  or  furrow  in  field,  the  enamelled  mossy 
mantles  of  the  rocks,  the  barred  heraldry  of  the  shield  of  the 
sky — perhaps  insects  and  birds  may  take  pleasure  in  them, 
not  we. 

To  his  own  native  lagunes  and  sea,  the  painter  is  yet  less 
sensitive.  His  absurd  rocks,  and  dotty  black  hedges  round 
bitumen-colored  fields  (542),  are  yet  painted  with  some 
grotesque  humor,  some  modest  and  unworldly  beauty  ;  and 
sustain  or  engird  their  castellated  quaintnesses  in  a  manner 
pleasing  to  the  pre-Rapliaelite  mind.  But  the  sea — waveless 
as  a  deal  board — and  in  that  tranquillity,  for  the  most  part  re¬ 
flecting  nothing  at  its  edge — literally,  such  a  sea  justifies  that 
uncourteous  saying  of  earlier  Venice  of  her  Doge’s  bride — 
“  Mare  sub  pede  pono.”* 

Of  all  these  deficiencies,  characteristic  not  of  this  master 
only,  but  of  his  age,  you  will  find  various  analysis  in  the  third 
volume  of  “  Modern  Painters,”  in  the  chapter  on  mediaeval 
landscape  ;  with  begun  examination  of  the  causes  which  led 
gradually  to  more  accurate  observance  of  natural  phenomena, 
until,  by  Turner,  the  method  of  Carpaccio’s  mind  is  precisely 
reversed,  and  the  Nature  in  the  background  becomes  princi¬ 
pal  ;  the  figures  in  the  foreground,  its  foil.  I  have  a  good 
deal  more,  however,  to  say  on  this  subject  now — so  much 
more,  indeed,  that  in  this  little  Guide  there  is  no  proper  room 
for  any  of  it,  except  the  simple  conclusion  that  both  the 

*  On  the  scroll  in  the  hand  of  the  throned  Venice  on  the  Piazzetta  side 
of  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  entire  inscription  is, 

“  Fortis,  justa,  trono  furias,  mare  sub  pede,  pono.” 

“  Strong,  and  just,  I  put  the  furies  beneath  my  throne,  and  the  sea 

beneath  my  fool,” 


TEE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  350 

painters  are  wrong  in  whatever  they  either  definitely  misrep¬ 
resent,  or  enfeeble  by  inharmonious  deficiency. 

In  the  next  place,  I  want  you  to  notice  Carpaccio’s  fancy  in 
what  he  does  represent  very  beautifully — the  architecture, 
real  and  ideal,  of  his  day. 

His  fancy,  I  say  ;  or  phantasy  ;  the  notion  he  has  of  what 
architecture  should  be  ;  of  which,  without  doubt,  you  see  his 
clearest  expression  in  the  Paradise,  and  in  the  palace  of  the 
most  Christian  King,  St.  Ursula’s  father. 

And  here  I  must  ask  you  to  remember,  or  learn  if  you  do 
not  know,  the  general  course  of  transition  in  the  architecture 
of  Venice — namely,  that  there  are  three  epochs  of  good  build¬ 
ing  in  Venice  ;  the  first  lasting  to  1300,  Byzantine,  in  the  style 
of  St.  Mark’s  ;  the  second,  1300  to  1480,  Gothic,  in  the  stylo 
of  the  Ducal  Palace  ;  and  the  third,  1480  to  1520,  in  a  manner 
which  architects  have  yet  given  no  entirely  accepted  name  to, 
but  which,  from  the  name  of  its  greatest  designer,  Brother 
Giocondo,  of  Verona,*  I  mean,  myself,  henceforward  to  call 
“  Giocondine.” 

Now,  the  dates  on  these  pictures  of  Carpaccio’s  run  from 
1480  to  1485,  so  that  you  see  he  was  painting  in  the  youthful 
gush,  as  it  were,  and  fullest  impetus  of  Giocondine  architec¬ 
ture,  which  all  Venice,  and  chiefly  Carpaccio,  in  the  joy  of  art, 
thought  was  really  at  last  the  architecture  divinely  designed, 
and  arrived  at  by  steady  progress  of  taste,  from  the  Creation 
to  1480,  and  then  the  ne  plus  ultra,  and  real  Babel-stylo  with¬ 
out  bewilderment — its  top  truly  reaching  to  heaven — style 
which  was  never  thenceforth  to  be  bettered  by  human  thought 
or  skill.  Of  which  Giocondine  manner,  I  really  think  you  had 
better  at  once  see  a  substantially  existent  piece.  It  will  not 
take  long — say  an  hour,  with  lunch  ;  and  the  good  door-keeper 
will  let  you  come  in  again  without  paying. f 

So  (always  supposing  the  day  fine),  go  down  to  your  boat, 

*  Called  “  the  second  Founder  of  Venice,”  for  his  engineering  work 
on  the  Brenta.  Ilis  architecture  is  chiefly  at  Verona;  the  style  being 
adopted  and  enriched  at  Venice  by  the  Lombardi. 

t  If  you  have  already  seen  the  school  of  St.  John,  or  do  not  like  the 
interruption,  continue  at  page  365. 


3G0  GUIDE  TO  TIIE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


and  order  yourself  to  be  taken  to  the  church  of  the  Frari. 
Landing  just  beyond  it,  your  gondoliers  will  show  you  the 
way,  up  the  calle  beside  it,  to  the  desolate  little  courtyard  of 
the  School  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist.  It  might  be  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  scenes  among  the  cities  of  Italy,  if  only  the 
good  Catholics  of  Venice  would  employ  so  much  of  their 
yearly  alms  in  the  honor  of  St.  John  the  Evangelist  as  to  main¬ 
tain  any  old  gondolier,  past  rowing,  in  this  courtyard  by  way 
of  a  Patmos,  on  condition  that  he  should  suffer  no  wildly 
neglected  children  to  throw  stones  at  the  sculptures,  nor 
grown-up  creatures  to  defile  them  ;  but  with  occasional  ablu¬ 
tion  by  sprinkling  from  garden  water-engine,  suffer  the  weeds 
of  Venice  to  inhabit  among  the  marbles  where  they  listed. 

How  beautiful  the  place  might  be,  I  need  not  tell  you. 
Beautiful  it  is,  even  in  its  squalid  misery ;  but  too  probably, 
some  modern  designer  of  railroad  stations  will  do  it  up  with 
new  gilding  and  scrapings  of  its  gray  stone.  The  gods  for¬ 
bid  ;  understand,  at  all  events,  that  if  this  happens  to  it,  you 
are  no  more  to  think  of  it  as  an  example  of  Giocondine  art. 
But,  as  long  as  it  is  let  alone  there,  in  the  shafts  and  capitals 
you  will  see,  on  the  whole,  the  most  characteristic  example  in 
Venice  of  the  architecture  that  Carpaccio,  Cima,  and  John 
Bellini  loved. 

As  a  rule,  observe,  square-piered,  not  round-pillared  ;  the 
square  piers  either  sculptured  all  up  with  floral  tracery,  or, 
if  plain,  decorated  half-way  up,  by  a  round  panel  of  dark-col¬ 
ored  marble  or  else  a  bas-relief,  usually  a  classic  profile ;  the 
capitals,  of  light  leafage,  playing  or  springing  into  joyful  spi¬ 
rals  at  the  angles  ;  the  mouldings  and  cornices  on  the  whole 
very  flat  or  square  cut — no  solid  round  mouldings  anywhere, 
but  all  precise,  rectangular,  and  shallow.  The  windows  and 
doors  either  square-headed  or  round — never  pointed  ;  but,  if 
square-headed,  having  often  a  Greek  gable  or  pediment  above, 
as  here  on  the  outer  wall  ;  and,  if  round-headed,  often  com¬ 
posed  of  two  semicircles  side  by  side,  with  a  circle  between  ;  * 


*  In  returning  to  your  boat,  just  walk  round  to  tlie  back  of  tbe  cliurch 
of  the  Frari,  and  look  at  the  windows  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  which 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


301 

the  wall  decoration  being  either  of  round  inlaid  marbles, 
among  floral  sculpture,  or  of  fresco.  Little  to  be  conceived 
from  words ;  but  if  you  will  look  well  inside  and  outside  of 
the  cortile  of  the  Evangelist,  you  will  come  away  with  a  very 
definite  primary  notion  of  Giocondine  work. 

Then  back,  with  straight  speed  to  the  Academy  ;  and  before 
landing  there,  since  you  can  see  the  little  square  in  front  of 
it,  from  your  boat,  read  on. 

The  little  square  has  its  name  written  up  at  the  corner,  you 
see — “Field  of  Charity,”  or  rather  of  the  Charity,  meaning 
the  Madonna  of  Charity,  and  church  dedicated  to  her.  Of 
which  you  see  the  mere  walls,  variously  defaced,  remaining 
yet  in  their  original  form,  traces  of  the  great  circular  window 
in  the  front  yet  left,  also  of  the  pointed  windows  at  the  sides 
— filled  up,  many  a  year  ago,  and  the  square  holes  below  cut 
for  modern  convenience  ;  there  being  no  space  in  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Italy  to  build  new  square-lioled  houses  on,  the 
Church  of  Charity  must  be  used  for  makeshift. 

Have  you  charity  of  imagination  enough  to  cover  this  little 
field  with  fresh  grass — to  tear  down  the  iron  bridge  which 
some  accursed  Englishman,  I  suppose,  greedy  for  filthy  job, 
persuaded  the  poor  Venetians  to  spoil  their  Grand  Canal  with, 
at  its  noblest  bend — and  to  fill  the  pointed  lateral  windows 
with  light  tracery  of  quatrefoiled  stone  ?  So  stood,  so  bloomed, 
the  church  and  its  field,  in  early  fourteenth  century — dismal 
time  !  the  church  in  its  fresh  beauty  then,  built  toward  the 
close  of  the  thirteenth  centurv,  on  the  site  of  a  much  more 
ancient  one,  first  built  of  wood  ;  and,  in  1119,  of  stone  ;  but 
still  very  small,  its  attached  monastery  receiving  Alexander 
IH.  in  1177  ;  here  on  the  little  flowery  field  landed  the  Pon¬ 
tiff  Exile,  whose  foot  was  to  tread  so  soon  on  the  Lion  and 
the  Adder. 

And  some  hundred  years  later,  putting  away,  one  finds  not 


will  fix  the  form  in  yonr  mind.  It  is  an  entirely  bad  one  ;  but  took  the 
fancy  of  men,  for  a  time,  and  of  strong  ones,  too.  But  don  t  stop  long 
just  now  to  look  at  this  later  building  ;  keep  the  St.  John  s  coitile  for 
your  type  of  Giocondine  work,  pure. 


362  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 

why,  her  little  Byzantine  church,  more  gravely  meditative 
Venice,  visited  much  by  Dominican  and  Franciscan  friars,  and 
more  or  less  in  cowled  temper  herself,  built  this  graver  and 
simpler  pile  ;  which,  if  any  of  my  readers  care  for  either 
Turner  or  me,  they  should  look  at  with  some  moments’  pause  ; 
for  I  have  given  Turner’s  lovely  sketch  of  it  to  Oxford,  painted 
as  he  saw  it  fifty  years  ago,  with  bright  golden  sails  grouped 
in  front  of  it  where  now  is  the  ghastly  iron  bridge.* 

Most  probably  (I  cannot  yet  find  any  direct  document  of 
it),  the  real  occasion  of  the  building  of  the  church  whose  wall* 
yet  stand,  was  the  founding  of  the  Confraternita  di  S.  Maria 
della  Carita,  on  St.  Leonard’s  day,  6th  November,  1260,  ^ 
which  brotherhood,  in  1310,  fought  side  by  side  with  the  school 
of  the  Painters  in  St.  Luke’s  field,  against  one  body  of  the 
conspirators  for  Bajamonte,  and  drove  them  back,  achieving 
the  right  thenceforward  of  planting  their  purple  standard 
there,  in  St.  Luke’s  field,  with  their  stemma  (all  this  bears  on 
Carpaccio’s  pictures  presently,  so  have  patience  yet  a  minute 
or  two)  ;  and  so  increasing  in  number  and  influence,  bought  in 
1344,  from  the  Monks  of  the  Church  of  Charity,  the  ground 
on  which  you  are  presently  going  to  see  pictures  ;  and  built 
on  it  their  cloister,  dedicated  also  to  St.  Mary  of  Charity  ;  and 
over  the  gate  of  it,  by  which  you  are  going  to  enter,  put  St. 
Mary  of  Charity,  as  they  best  could  get  her  carved,  next  year, 
1345  ;  and  so  you  have  her  there,  with  cowled  members  of  the 
confraternity  kneeling  to  her  ;  happy  angels  fluttering  about 
her ;  the  dark  blue  of  her  eyes  not  yet  utterly  faded  from 
them.  Blue ^yed  as  Athena  she — the  Greek  tradition  yet 
prevailing  to  that  extent — a  perfect  type,  the  whole  piece,  of 


*  “Very  convenient  for  tlie  people,”  say  you,  modern  man  of  "busi¬ 
ness.  Yes ;  very  convenient  to  them  also  to  pay  two  centesimi  every 
time  they  cross — six  for  three  persons,  into  the  pockets  of  that  English 
engineer  ;  instead  of  five  for  three  persons,  to  one  of  their  own  boat¬ 
men,  who  now  take  to  begging,  drinking,  and  bellowing  for  the 
wretched  hordes  at  the  tables  d’hote,  whose  ears  have  been  rent  by 
railroad  whistles  till  they  don’t  know  a  howl  from  a  song — instead  of 
ferrying. 

f  Archivio  Veneto.  (Venezia,  187G.)  Tom.  XII.,  Parte  i.,  p.  112. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  303 


purest  central  fourteenth-century  Gothic  thought  and  work 
untouched,  and  indubitable  of  date,  being  inscribed  below  its 
bracket  cornice, 

MCCCXLV.  I  LO  TEMPO  DE  MIS. 

MARCHO  ZULIAN  FO  FATO  STO  LAVORIER. 

To  wit — “  1345,  in  the  time”  (of  the  Guardianship)  “  of 
Messer  Mark  Julian,  was  made  this  labored  thing.” 

And  all  seemed  to  bid  fair  for  Venice  and  her  sacred  schools  • 

9 

Heaven  surely  pleased  with  these  her  endeavors,  and  labored 
things. 

Yes,  with  these,  and  such  other,  I  doubt  not.  But  other 
things,  it  seems,  had  been  done  in  Venice,  with  which  Heaven 
was  not  pleased  ;  assuming  always  that  there  is  a  Heaven,  for 
otherwise — what  followed  was  of  course  only  process  of  Dar¬ 
winian  development.  But  this  was  what  followed.  That 
Madonna,  with  her  happy  angels  and  humble  worshippers,  was 
carved  as  you  see  her  over  the  Scuola  cloister  door — in  1345. 
And  “  on  the  25th  of  January,  1347,*  on  the  day,  to  wit,  of 
the  conversion  of  St.  Paul,  about  the  hour  of  vespers,  there 
came  a  great  earthquake  in  Venice,  and  as  it  were  in  all  the 
world  ;  and  fell  many  tops  of  bell- towers,  and  houses,  and 
chimneys,  and  the  church  of  St.  Basil  :  and  there  was  so  great 
fear  that  all  the  people  thought  to  die.  And  the  earth  ceased 
not  to  tremble  for  about  forty  days  ;  and  when  it  remained 
quiet,  there  came  a  great  mortality,  and  the  people  died  of 
various  evil.  And  the  people  were  in  so  great  fear,  that  father 
would  not  go  to  visit  son,  nor  son  father.  And  this  death 
lasted  about  six  months  ;  and  it  was  said  commonly  that  there 
died  two  parts  out  of  three,  of  all  the  people  of  Venice.” 

These  words  you  may  read  (in  Venetian  dialect),  after  jTou 
have  entered  the  gate  beneath  the  Madonna  ;  they  are  engraved 
under  the  Gothic  arch  on  your  right  hand  ;  with  other  like 
words,  telling  the  various  horror  of  that  Plague  ;  and  how  the 
guardian  of  the  Scuola  died  by  it,  and  about  ten  of  his  officers 
with  him,  and  three  hundred  of  the  brethren. 


*  1348,  in  our  present  calendar. 


304  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


Above  the  inscription,  two  angels  hold  the  symbol  of  the 
Scuola  ;  carved  as  you  see,  conspicuously  also  on  the  outer 
sculptures  in  various  places  ;  and  again  on  the  well  in  the 
midst  of  the  cloister.  The  first  sign  this,  therefore,  of  all 
chosen  by  the  greater  schools  of  Venice,  of  which,  as  aforesaid, 
“  The  first  was  that  of  St.  Mary  of  Charity,  which  school  has 
its  wax  candles  red,  in  sign  that  Charity  should  be  glowing  ; 
and  has  for  its  bearing  a  yellow  ”(  meaning  golden  *)  “  cross, 
traversing  two  little  circles  also  yellow  ;  with  red  and  green 
quartering  the  parts  which  the  cross  describes — those  who  in¬ 
stituted  such  sign  desiring  to  show  thereby  the  union  that 
Charity  should  have  with  Faith  and  Hope/’f 

The  golden  “  anchored  ”  cross  stands  for  Faith,  the  golden 
outer  circle  for  Charity,  the  golden  inner  for  Hope — all  on 
field  quartered  gules  and  vert,  the  colors  of  Charity  and 
Hope. 

Such  the  first  symbol  of  Venetian  Brotherhoods  J — in  read¬ 
ing  which,  I  delay  you,  that  you  may  be  better  prepared  to 
understand  the  symbolism  running  through  every  sign  and 
color  in  Venetian  art  at  this  time,  down  even  to  its  tinting  of 
wax  candles  ;  art  which  was  indeed  all  the  more  symbolic  for 
being  rude,  and  complicated  much  with  the  use  of  signals  and 
heraldries  at  sea,  too  distant  for  any  art  in  them  to  be  visible) 
but  serviceably  intelligible  in  meaning. 

How  far  the  great  Scuola  and  cloisters  of  the  Carita,  for 
monks  and  confraternity  together,  reached  from  the  gate  under 
which  you  are  pausing,  you  may  see  in  Durer’s  wood-cut  of 
the  year  1500  (Correr  Museum),  which  gives  the  apse  with 
attached  chapels  ;  and  the  grand  double  cloister  reaching  back 
nearly  to  the  Giudecca  ;  a  water-wheel — as  I  suppose — out- 


*  Ex  Cruce  constat  aurea,  ueu  flava  ;  ejus  speciei,  quam  artis  hujus- 
modi  Anctores  “  ancoratam'’  vocant. 

|  In  tabulam  Graecam  insigni  sodalitio  S.  M.  Caritatis,  Venetiarum, 
ab  amplissimo  Cardinali  Bessarione  dono  datam,  Disserattio. — (St.  Mark’s 
library,  33331,  page  14G.) 

\  At  least  according  to  tlie  authority  above  quoted  ;  as  far  as  I  have 
consulted  the  original  documents  myself,  I  find  the  school  of  St.  Theodore 
primal. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  365 


side,  on  the  (now  filled  up  and  paved)  canal,  moved  by  the 
tide,  for  molinary  work  in  the  kitchens.  Of  all  which  nothing 
now  remains  but  these  pillars  and  beams,  between  you  and  the 
gallery  staircase  ;  and  the  well  with  two  brothers  on  each  side 
holding  their  Stemma,  a  fine  free-hand  piece  of  rough  living 
work.  You  will  not,  I  think,  find  that  you  have  ill  spent  your 
hour  of  rest  when  you  now  return  into  the  Carpaccio  room, 
where  we  will  look  first,  please,  at  No.  IV.  (549),  in  which 
many  general  points  are  better  shown  than  in  the  rest. 

Here  is  the  great  King  of  ideal  England,  under  an  octagonal 
temple  of  audience  ;  all  the  scene  being  meant  to  show  the 
conditions  of  a  state  in  perfect  power  and  prosperity. 

A  state,  therefore,  that  is  at  once  old  and  young  ;  that  has 
had  a  history  for  centuries  past,  and  will  have  one  for  cen¬ 
turies  to  come. 

Ideal,  founded  mainly  on  the  Venice  of  his  own  day  ; 
mingled  a  little  with  thoughts  of  great  Rome,  and  of  great 
antagonist  Genoa  :  but,  in  all  spirit  and  hope,  the  Venice  of 
1480-1500  is  here  living  before  you.  And  now,  therefore, 
you  can  see  at  once  what  she  meant  by  a  “  Campo,”  allowing 
for  the  conventional  manner  of  representing  grass,  which  of 
course  at  first  you  will  laugh  at ;  but  which  is  by  no  means 
deserving  of  your  contempt.  Any  hack  draughtsman  of  Dal- 
ziel’s  can  sketch  for  you,  or  any  member  of  the  Water-color  or 
Dudley  Societies  dab  for  you,  in  ten  minutes,  a  field  of  hay 
that  you  would  fancy  you  could  mow,  and  make  cocks  of. 
But  this  green  ground  of  Carpaccio’s,  with  implanted  flowers 
and  tufts  of  grass,  is  traditional  from  the  first  Greek-Christian 
mosaics,  and  is  an  entirely  systematic  ornamental  ground,  and 
to  be  understood  as  such,  primarily,  and  as  grass  only  sym¬ 
bolically.  Careless  indeed,  more  than  is  usual  with  him — 
much  spoiled  and  repainted  also  ;  but  quite  clear  enough  in 
expression  for  us  of  the  orderliness  and  freshness  of  a  Venetian 
campo  in  the  great  times  ;  garden  and  city  you  see  mingled 
inseparably,  the  wild  strawberry  growing  at  the  steps  of  the 
king’s  court  of  justice,  and  their  marble  sharp  and  bright  out 
of  the  turf.  Clean  everything,  and  pure — no  cigars  in  any¬ 
body’s  poisoned  mouth — no  voiding  of  perpetual  excrement 


3CG  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


of  saliva  on  the  precious  marble  or  living  flowers.  Perfect 
peace  and  befittingness  of  behavior  in  all  men  and  creatures. 
Your  very  monkey  in  repose,  perfect  in  his  mediteval  dress  ; 
the  Darwinian  theory  in  all  its  sacredness,  breadth,  divinity, 
and  sagacity — but  reposeful,  not  venturing  to  thrust  itself  into 
political  council.  Crowds  on  the  bridges  and  quays,  but  untu- 
multuous,  close  set  as  beds  of  flowers,  richly  decorative  in  their 
mass,  and  a  beautiful  mosaic  of  men,  and  of  black,  red,  blue, 
and  golden  bonnets.  Ruins,  indeed,  among  the  prosperity  ; 
but  glorious  ones — not  shells  of  abandoned  speculation,  but 
remnants  of  mighty  state  long  ago,  now  restored  to  nature’s 
peace  ;  the  arches  of  the  first  bridge  the  city  had  built,  broken 
down  by  storm,  yet  what  was  left  of  them  spared  for  memory’s 
sake.  (So  stood  for  a  little  while,  a  few  years  ago,  the  broken 
Ponte-a-Mare  at  Pisa  ;  so  at  Rome,  for  ages,  stood  the  Ponte 
Rotto,  till  the  engineers  and  modern  mob  got  at  it,  making 
what  was  in  my  youth  the  most  lovely  and  holy  scene  in  Rome, 
now  a  place  where  a  swineherd  could  not  stand  without  hold¬ 
ing  his  nose,  and  which  no  woman  can  stop  at.) 

But  here,  the  old  arches  are  covered  with  sweet  weeds,  like 
native  rock,  and  (for  once  !)  reflected  a  little  in  the  pure  water 
under  the  meadowy  hills.  Much  besides  of  noteworthy,  if 
you  are  yourself  worthy  of  noting  it,  you  may  find  in  this 
lovely  distance.  But  the  picture,  it  may  be  complained,  seems 
for  the  most  part — distance,  architecture,  and  scattered,  crowd; 
while  of  foreground  objects,  we  have  principally  cloaks,  and 
very  curiously  thin  legs.*  Well,  yes — the  distance  is  indeed 
the  prettiest  part  of  this  picture  ;  and  since,  in  modern  art  and 
drama,  we  have  been  accustomed,  for  anatomical  and  other 
reasons,  to  depend  on  nothing  else  but  legs,  I  admit  the  suj^ply 
of  legs  to  be  here  scanty,  and  even  of  brachial,  pectoral,  and 
other  admirable  muscles.  If  you  choose  to  look  at  the  faces 
instead,  you  will  find  something  in  them  ;  nevertheless,  Car¬ 
paccio  has  been,  on  the  whole,  playing  with  himself,  and  with 
us,  in  his  treatment  of  this  subject.  For  Carpaccio,  is,  in  the 


*  Not  in  the  least  unnaturally  tliin,  however,  in  the  forms  of  persons 
of  sedentary  life. 


TIIE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  367 


most  vital  and  conclusive  sense,  a  man  of  genius,  wlio  will  not 
at  all  supply  you,  nor  can  in  the  least  supply  himself,  with 
sublimity  and  pathos  to  order  ;  but  is  sublime,  or  delightful, 
or  sometimes  dull,  or  frequently  grotesque,  as  Heaven  wills 
it  ;  or — profane  persons  will  say — as  the  humor  takes  him. 
And  his  humor  here  has  been  dominant.  For  since  much  de¬ 
pends  on  the  answer  brought  back  from  St.  Ursula,  besides 
the  young  Prince’s  happiness,  one  should  have  thought,  the 
return  of  the  embassy  might  have  been  represented  in  a  loftier 
manner.  But  only  two  of  the  ambassadors  are  here  ;  the  king 
is  occupied  in  hearing  a  cause  which  will  take  long — (see  how 
gravely  his  minister  is  reading  over  the  documents  in  ques¬ 
tion)  ;  meantime  the  young  prince,  impatient,  going  down 
the  steps  of  the  throne,  makes  his  own  private  inquiries, 
proudly  :  “  Your  embassy  has,  I  trust,  been  received,  gentle¬ 
men,  with  a  just  understanding  of  our  diplomatic  relations?  ” 
“  Your  Royal  Highness,”  the  lowly  and  gravely  bowing  prin¬ 
cipal  ambassador  replies,  “  must  yourself  be  the  only  fitting 
judge  of  that  matter,  on  fully  hearing  our  report.”  Meantime, 
the  charge  d’affaires  holds  St.  Ursula’s  answer — behind  his 
back. 

A  piece  of  play,  very  nearly,  the  whole  picture  ;  a  painter 
living  in  the  midst  of  a  prosperous  city,  happy  in  his  own 
power,  entirely  believing  in  God,  and  in  the  saints,  and  in 
eternal  life  ;  and,  at  intervals,  bending  his  whole  soul  to  the 
expression  of  most  deep  and  holy  tragedy — such  a  man  needs 
must  have  his  times  of  play  ;  which  Carpaccio  takes,  in  his 
work.  Another  man,  instead  of  painting  this  piece  with  its 
monkey,  and  its  little  fiddler,  and  its  jesting  courtiers,  would 
have  played  some  ape-tricks  of  his  own — spent  an  hour  or  two 
among  literal  fiddlers,  and  living  courtiers.  Carpaccio  is  not 
heard  of  among  such — amuses  himself  still  with  pencil  in  hand, 
and  us  also,  pleasantly,  for  a  little  while.  You  shall  be  serious 
enough,  soon,  with  him,  if  you  will. 

But  I  find  this  Guide  must  run  into  greater  division,  for  I 
can’t  get  the  end  of  it  properly  done  yet  for  some  days  ; 
during  the  winter  the  gallery  was  too  cold  for  me  to  think 
quietly  in;  and  SQ  I  am  obliged;  as  U ate  always  lately  obliges 


36S  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


me,  to  do  tliis  work  from  pen  to  print — at  speed  ;  so  that, 
quitting  Carpaccio  for  the  nonce,  I  will  tell  you  a  little  more 
about  the  general  contents  of  the  rooms  ;  and  so  afterward 
take  up  St.  Ursula’s  pilgrimage,  undisturbed.*  Now,  there¬ 
fore,  I  will  simply  follow  the  order  of  the  room  circuit,  noting 
the  pieces  worth  study,  if  you  have  proper  time. 

From  before  this  picture  which  has  so  long  held  us,  go 
down  the  steps  on  the  right  of  it,  into  the  lower  room. 

Turning  round  immediately,  you  have  good  sight  of  two 
Paul  Veroneses,  one  on  each  side  of  the  step>s.  The  upper 
group  of  the  picture  on  your  left  (603),  Madonna  borne  by 
angels  at  her  knees,  and  encompassed  by  a  circlet  of  them,  is 
the  loveliest  piece  of  Veronese  in  these  galleries,  nor  can  you 
see  a  better  in  the  world ;  but,  considered  as  a  whole,  the 
picture  is  a  failure  ;  all  the  sub-celestial  part  of  it  being  wholly 
dull.  Nevertheless,  for  essential  study  of  Veronese’s  faculty, 
you  cannot  find  anything  better  in  Venice  than  that  upper 
group  ;  and  the  opposite  picture,  though  confused,  is  worth 
attentive  pause  from  all  painters. 

597.  Le  Brun.  Sent  from  Paris,  you  see,  in  exchange  for 
the  Cena  of  Paul  Veronese. 

The  Cena  of  Paul  Veronese  being  worth — at  moderate 
estimate  of  its  eternal  and  intrinsic  art-value — I  should  say, 
roughly,  about  ten  good  millions  of  sterling  ducats,  or  twenty 
ironclads  ;  and  the  Le  Brun,  worth,  if  it  were  put  to  proper 
use,  precisely  what  its  canvas  may  now  be  worth  to  make  a 
packing-case  of  ;  but,  as  hung  here,  in  negative  value,  and 
effectual  mischief,  in  disgracing  tho  rooms,  and  keeping  fine 
pictures  invisibly  out  of  the  way — a  piece  of  vital  poverty  and 
calamity  much  more  than  equivalent  to  the  presence  of  a  dirty, 
torn  rag,  which  the  public  would  at  once  know  to  be  worth¬ 
less,  in  its  place  instead. 

569,  570.  Standard  average  portrait-pieces,  fairly  repre- 

*  This  I  am  now  doing  in  a  separate  Guide  to  the  works  of  Carpaccio 
in  Venice  ;  these  two  parts,  now  published,  contain  all  I  have  to  say 
about  the  Academy. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


369 


sentative  of  Tintoret’s  quiet  work,  and  of  Venetian  magis¬ 
trates — Camerlenglii  di  Comune.  Compare  587 ;  very  beau¬ 
tiful. 

581,  582,  583.  Spoils  of  the  Church  of  the  Carita,  whose 
ruins  you  have  seen.  Venice  being  of  all  cities  the  only  one 
which  has  sacked  herself,  not  in  revolution,  but  mere  blun¬ 
dering  beggary  ;  suppressing  every  church  that  had  blessed 
her,  and  every  society  that  had  comforted.  But  at  all  events 
you  see  the  pictures  here  ;  and  the  Cima  is  a  fine  one  ;  but 
what  time  you  give  to  this  painter  should  be  spent  chiefly 
with  his  John  the  Baptist  at  the  Madonna  dell’  Orto. 

586.  Once  a  Bonifazio  of  very  high  order  ;  sorrowfully 
repainted  with  loss  of  half  its  life.  But  a  picture,  still,  de¬ 
serving  honor. 

From  this  room  you  find  access  either  to  the  modern  pict¬ 
ures,  or  by  the  door  on  the  left  hand  of  the  Cima,  to  the  col¬ 
lection  of  drawings.  The  well-known  series  by  Raphael  and 
Lionardo  are  of  the  very  highest  historical  value  and  artistic 
interest;  but  it  is  curious  to  find,  in  Venice,  scarcely  a  scratch 
or  blot  remaining  of  elementary  study  by  any  great  Venetian 
master.  Her  painters  drew  little  in  black  and  white,  and 
must  have  thrown  such  sketches,  when  they  made  them,  away 
for  mere  waste  paper.  For  all  discussion  of  their  methods 
of  learning  to  draw  with  color  from  the  first,  I  must  refer  my 
readers  to  my  Art  lectures. 

The  Lionardo  drawings  here  are  the  finest  I  know  ;  none 
in  the  Ambrosian  library  equal  them  in  execution. 

The  staircase  leading  out  of  this  room  descends  into  the 
Hall  of  Titian’s  Assumption,  where  I  have  said  nothing  yet  of 
his  last  picture  (33),  nor  of  that  called  in  the  Guide-books  an 
example  of  his  first  style  (35). 

It  has  always  been  with  me  an  intended  piece  of  work  to 
trace  the  real  method  of  Titian’s  study,  and  the  changes  of 
his  mind.  But  I  shall  never  do  it  now  ;  *  and  am  hitherto 

*  For  reasons  which  any  acute  reader  may  enough  discover  in  my 
lecture  on  Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret. 

24 


370  GUIDE  TO  THE  PRINCIPAL  PICTURES  IN 


entirely  unacquainted  with  his  early  work.  If  this  be  indeed 
his,  and  a  juvenile  piece,  it  indicates  a  breadth  of  manner,  and 
conventionally  artistic  way  of  looking  at  nature,  entirely  pe¬ 
culiar  to  him  or  to  his  era.  The  picture  which  he  left  unfin¬ 
ished  might  most  fittingly  be  called  the  Shadow  of  Death.  It 
is  full  of  the  profoundest  metaphysical  interest  to  me ;  but 
cannot  be  analyzed  here. 

In  general,  Titian  is  ill-represented  in  his  own  Venice. 
The  best  example  of  him,  by  far,  is  the  portrait  group  of  the 
Pesaro  family  in  the  Frari.  The  St.  Mark  in  the  Sacristy  of 
the  Salute  was,  in  my  early  days,  entirely  glorious  ;  but  has 
been  daubed  over  into  ruin.  The  roof  of  the  Sacristy  in  the 
Salute,  with  the  fresco  of  St.  Christopher,*  and  the  portrait 
of  the  Doge  Grimani  before  Faith,  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  are 
all  the  remnants  of  him  that  are  worth  study  here,  since  the 
destruction  in  the  Peter  Martyr. \  The  St.  John  the  Baptist 
in  this  gallery  (366),  is  really  too  stupid  to  be  endured,  and 
the  black  and  white  scrabble  of  landscape  in  it  is  like  a  bad 
copy  of  Ruysdael. 

45.  The  Miracle  of  St.  Mark  ;  a  fine,  but  much-overrated, 
Tintoret.  If  any  painter  of  real  power  wishes  to  study  this 
master,  let  him  be  content  with  the  Paradise  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  and  the  School  of  St.  Roch,  where  no  harmful  repaint¬ 
ing  has  yet  taken  place.  The  once  mighty  pictures  in  the 
Madonna  dell’  Orto  are  destroyed  by  restoration  ;  and  those 
which  are  scattered  about  the  other  churches  are  scarcely 
worth  pursuit,  while  the  series  of  St.  Roch  remains  in  its 
purity. 

In  the  next  room  to  this  (Sala  III.)  the  pictures  on  the 


*  An  admirable  account  of  this  fresco  is  given  by  Mr.  Edward  Cheney, 
in  “  Original  Documents  Relating  to  Venetian  Painters  and  their  Pictures 
in  the  Eighteenth  Century,”  pp.  GO,  61. 

f  Of  the  portrait  of  the  Doge  Andrea  Gritti,  in  my  own  possession  at 
Oxford,  I  leave  others  to  speak,  when  I  can  speak  of  it  no  more.  But 
it  must  be  named  here  as  the  only  fragment  left  of  another  great  picture 
destroyed  by  fire,  which  Tintoret  had  so  loved  and  studied  that  he  re* 
placed  it  from  memory. 


THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS.  371 


ceiling,  brought  from  the  room  of  the  State  Inquisitors,  are 
more  essential,  because  more  easy,  Tintoret-work,  than  the  St. 
Mark,  and  very  delightful  to  me  ;  I  only  wish  the  Inquisitors 
were  alive  to  enjoy  them  again  themselves,  and  inquire  into  a 
few  things  happening  in  Venice,  and  especially  into  the  relig¬ 
ious  principles  of  her  “  Modern  Painters.” 

We  have  made  the  round  of  the  rooms,  all  but  the  Pina- 
coteca  Contarini,  Sala  V.  and  VI.,  and  the  long  gallery,  Sala 
X.-XIV.,  both  containing  many  smaller  pictures  of  interest ; 
but  of  which  I  have  no  time,  nor  much  care,  to  speak — except 
in  complaint  that  detestable  daubs  by  Callot,  Dujardin,  and 
various  ignoti,  should  be  allowed  to  disgrace  the  sixth  sala,  and 
occupy  some  of  the  best  of  the  very  little  good  light  there  is 
in  the  Academy ;  thrusting  the  lovely  little  Tintoret,  179 — 
purest  work  of  his  heart  and  fairest  of  his  faculty — high  be¬ 
yond  sight  of  all  its  delicious  painting  ;  and  the  excellent  quiet 
portrait,  168,  into  an  unregarded  corner.  I  am  always  puzzled 
by  the  smaller  pictures  of  John  Bellini ;  many  of  them  here, 
of  whose  authorship  there  can  be  little  doubt,  being  yet  of 
very  feeble  merit.  94  is  fine  ;  and  the  five  symbolical  pictures, 
234-238,  in  the  inner  room,  Sala  VI.,  are  interesting  to  my¬ 
self  ;  but  may  probably  be  little  so  to  others.  The  first  is, 
(I  believe),  Domestic  Love,  the  world  in  her  hand  becoming 
the  color  of  Heaven  ;  the  second,  Fortitude  quitting  the  ef¬ 
feminate  Dionysus  ;  the  third  (much  the  poorest  and  least  in¬ 
telligible),  Truth,  or  Prudence  ;  the  fourth,  Lust ;  and  the  fifth, 
Fortune  as  Opportunity,  in  distinction  from  the  greater  and 
sacred  Fortune  appointed  of  Heaven. 

And  now,  if  you  are  yet  unfatigued,*  you  had  better  go 
back  into  the  great  room,  and  give  thorough  examination  to 
the  wonderful  painting,  as  such,  in  the  great  Veronese,  con¬ 
sidering  what  all  its  shows  and  dexterities  at  last  came  to,  and 
reading,  before  it,  his  examination  concerning  it,  given  in 
Appendix,  which  shows  you  that  Venice  herself  felt  what  they 
were  likely  to  come  to,  though  in  vain  ;  and  then,  for  contrast 
with  its  reckless  power,  and  for  final  image  to  be  remembered 


*  If  you  are,  end  with  179,  and  remember  it  well. 


372  THE  VENICE  ACADEMY  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


of  sweet  Italian  art  in  its  earnestness,  return  into  the  long 
gallery  (through  the  two  great  rooms,  turning  your  back  on 
the  Veronese,  then  out  by  the  door  opposite  Titian’s  huge 
picture  ;  then  out  of  the  corridor  by  the  first  door  on  the  right, 
and  walk  down  the  gallery),  to  its  little  Sala  X.,  where,  high 
on  your  left,  360,  is  the  Beata  Catherine  Vigri’s  St.  Ursula  ; 
Catherine  Vigri  herself,  it  may  be,  kneeling  to  her.  Truly  a 
very  much  blessed  Catherine,  and,  I  should  say,  far  more  than 
half-way  to  a  saint,  knowing,  however,  of  her,  and  her  work, 
only  this  picture.  Of  which  I  will  only  say  in  closing,  as  I 
said  of  the  Vicar’s  picture  in  beginning,  that  it  would  be  well 
if  any  of  us  could  do  such  things  nowadays — and  more  especi¬ 
ally,  if  our  vicars  and  young  ladies  could. 


APPENDIX. 


The  little  collection  of  “  Documents  relating  to  Venetian”  Painters 
already  referred  to  (p.  370),  as  made  with  excellent  judgment  by  Mr. 
Edward  Cheney,  is,  I  regret  to  say,  “  communicated  ”  only  to  the  author's 
friends,  of  whom  I,  being  now  one  of  long  standing,  emboldened  also 
by  repeated  instances  of  help  received  from  him,  venture  to  trespass  on 
the  modest  book  so  far  as  to  reprint  part  of  the  translation  which  it  gives 
of  the  questioning  of  Paul  Veronese. 

“It  is  well  known,”  says  Mr.  Cheney  in  his  prefatory  remarks,  “to 
the  students  of  Venetian  history,  that  the  Roman  Inquisition  was  allowed 
little  influence,  and  still  less  power,  in  the  states  of  the  Signory  ;  and 
its  sittings  were  always  attended  by  lay  members,  selected  from  the 
Senate,  to  regulate  and  report  its  proceedings. 

“The  sittings  of  the  Holy  Office  were  held  in  the  chapel  of  St. 
Theodore,  fronting  the  door  leading  from  St.  Mark’s  Church  to  the 
Fondamenta  di  Canonica.” 

On  Saturday,  the  8th  July,  1573,  Master  Paul  Caliari,  of  Verona,  a 
painter,  residing  in  the  parish  of  St.  Samuel,  was  brought  before  the 
Sacred  Tribunal  ;  and  being  asked  his  name  and  surname,  answered  as 
above  ;  and  being  asked  of  his  profession,  answered : 

“  A.  I  invent  and  draw  figures. 

Q.  Do  you  know  the  reason  why  you  have  been  summoned  ? 

A.  No,  my  lord. 

Q.  Can  you  imagine  it  V 

A.  I  can  imagine  it. 

Q.  Tell  us  what  you  imagine. 

A.  For  the  reason  which  the  Reverend  Prior  of  SS.  Giovanni  and 
Paolo,  whose  name  I  know  not,  told  me  that  he  had  been  here,  and  that 
your  illustrious  lordships  had  given  him  orders  that  I  should  substitute 
the  figure  of  the  Magdalen  for  that  of  a  dog  ;  and  I  replied  that  I  would 
willingly  have  done  this,  or  anything  else  for  my  own  credit  and  the 
advantage  of  the  picture,  but  that  I  did  not  think  the  figure  of  the 


374 


APPENDIX. 


Magdalen  would  be  fitting  (!!)*  or  would  look  well,  for  many  reason;*, 
which  I  will  always  assign  whenever  the  opportunity  is  given  me. 

Q.  What  picture  is  that  which  you  have  named  ? 

A.  It  is  the  picture  representing  the  lastf  supper  that  Jesus  took  with 
His  disciples  in  the  house  of  Simon. 

Q.  Where  is  this  picture  ? 

A.  In  the  refectory  of  the  Friars  of  SS.  Giovanni  and  Paolo. 

Q.  Is  it  painted  on  the  wall,  on  panel,  or  on  cloth  f 
A.  On  cloth. 

Q.  How  many  feet  is  it  in  height  ? 

A.  It  is  about  seventeen  feet. 

Q.  How  wide  ? 

A.  About  thirty-nine  feet. 

Q.  In  this  supper  of  our  Lord  have  you  painted  any  attendants  ? 

A.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Q.  Say  how  many  attendants,  and  what  each  is  doing. 

A.  First,  the  master  of  the  house,  Simon  ;  besides,  I  have  placed  be- 
/ow  him  a  server,  who  I  have  supposed  to  have  come  for  his  own  amuso- 


*  I  must  interpolate  two  notes  of  adimration.  After  all  one  has  heard  of 
the  terrors  of  the  Inquisition,  it  seems,  nevertheless,  some  people  ventured  to 
differ  with  it  in  opinion,  on  occasion.  And  the  Inquisition  was  entirely  right, 
too.  See  next  note. 

t  “Cena  ultima  che,”  etc.  :  the  last,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  two  which  Veronese 
supposed  Christ  to  have  taken  with  this  host ;  but  he  had  not  carefully  enough 
examined  the  apparently  parallel  passages.  They  are  confusing  enough,  and 
perhaps  the  reader  will  be  glad  to  refer  to  them  in  their  proper  order. 

I.  There  is  first,  the  feast  given  to  Christ  by  St.  Matthew  after  he  was  called ; 
the  circumstances  of  it  told  by  himself;  only  saying  “  the  house”  instead  of 
“ my  house”  (Matt.  ix.  9-13).  This  is  the  feast  at  which  the  objection  is 
taken  by  the  Pharisees — “  Why  eateth  your  Master  with  publicans  and  sin¬ 
ners  ?  ”  the  event  being  again  related  by  St.  Luke  (v.  29),  giving  Matthew  the 
name  of  Levi.  No  other  circumstance  of  interest  takes  place  on  this  occasion. 

II.  “  One  of  the  Pharisees  desired  Him  that  He  would  eat  with  him  :  and 
He  went  into  the  Pharisee’s  house,  and  sat  down  to  meat  ”  (Luke  viii.  36). 

To  this  feast  came  the  Magdalen,  and  “  stood  at  His  feet,  behind  Him, 
weeping.”  And  you  know  the  rest.  The  same  lesson  given  to  the  Pharisees 
who  forbade  the  feast  of  Matthew,  here  given — in  how"  much  more  pathetic 
force — to  the  Pharisee  at  whose  feast  Jesus  now  sat.  Another  manner  of 
sinner  this,  who  stands  uncalled,  at  the  feast,  weeping  ;  who  in  a  little  while 
will  stand  weeping — not  for  herself.  The  name  of  the  Pharisee  host  is  given 
in  Christ’s  grave  address  to  him — “  Simon,  I  have  somewhat  to  say  unto  thee.” 

III.  The  supper  at  Bethany,  in  the  house  of  Simon  “the  Leper,”  where 
Lazarus  sat  at  table,  where  Martha  served,  and  where  her  sister  Mary  poured 
the  ointment  on  Christ’s  head,  “for  my  burial  ”  (Mark  xiv.  3  ;  Matt.  xxvi.  7 ; 
and  John  xii.  2,  where  in  the  following  third  verse  doubtless  some  copyist, 
confusing  her  with  the  Magdalen,  added  the  clause  of  her  wiping  His  feet  with 


APPENDIX. 


375 


ment  to  see  the  arrangement  of  the  table.  There  are  besides  several 
others,* * * * §  which,  as  there  are  many  figures  in  the  picture,  I  do  not  rec¬ 
ollect. 

Q.  What  is  the  meaning  of  those  men  dressed  in  the  German 
fashion  V  f  each  with  a  halbert  in  his  hand  ? 

A.  It  is  now  necessary  that  I  should  say  a  few  words4 

The  Court.  Say  on. 

A.  We  painters  take  the  same  license  that  is  permitted  to  poets,  and 
jesters  (!).  I  have  placed  those  two  halberdiers — the  one  eating,  the 
other  drinking  § — by  the  staircase,  to  be  supposed  ready  to  perform  any 
duty  that  may  be  required  of  them  ;  it  appearing  to  me  quite  fitting  that 
the  master  of  such  a  house,  who  was  rich  and  great  (as  I  have  been 
told),  should  have  such  attendants. 

Q.  That  fellow  dressed  like  a  buffoon,  with  the  parrot  on  his  wrist — 
for  what  purpose  is  he  introduced  into  the  canvas  ? 

A.  For  ornament,  as  is  usually  done.  | 

Q.  At  the  table  of  the  Lord  whom  have  you  placed  ? 

A.  The  twelve  apostles. 


her  hair — so  also,  more  palpably,  in  John  xi.  2).  Here  the  objection  ia  made 
by  Judas,  and  the  lesson  given — “  The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you.” 

We  cannot  seriously  suppose  Simon  the  Leper  to  be  the  same  person  as  Simon 
the  Pharisee ;  still  less  Simon  the  Pharisee  to  be  the  same  as  Matthew  the 
publican  :  but  in  Veronese’s  mind  their  three  feasts  had  got  confused,  and  he 
thinks  of  them  as  two  only,  and  calls  this  which  he  represents  here  the  last  of 
the  two,  though  there  is  nothing  whatever  to  identify  it  as  first,  last,  or  middle. 
There  ia  no  Magdalen,  no  Mary,  no  Lazarus,  no  hospitable  Levi,  no  supercili¬ 
ous  Simon.  Nothing  but  a  confused  meeting  of  very  mixed  company  ;  half  of 
them  straggling  about  the  table  without  sitting  down ;  and  the  conspicuous 
brown  dog,  for  whom  the  Inquisitors  would  have  had  him  substitute  the  Mag¬ 
dalen — which,  if  he  had  done,  the  picture  would  have  been  right  in  all  other 
particulars,  the  scarlet-robed  figure  opposite  Christ  then  becoming  Simon  the 
Pharisee  ;  but  he  cannot  be  Matthew  the  apostle,  for  Veronese  distinctly 
names  the  twelve  apostles  after  “  the  master  of  the  house  and  the  text  written 
on  the  balustrade  on  the  left  is  therefore  either  spurious  altogether,  or  added 
by  Veronese  to  get  rid  of  the  necessity  of  putting  in  a  Magdalen  to  satisfy  his 
examiners,  or  please  the  Prior  of  St.  John  and  Paul. 

*  Yes,  there  certainly  are  “  several  others” — some  score  of  idlers  about,  I 
should  say.  But  this  longer  answer  of  the  painter’s  was  probably  little  attend¬ 
ed  to,  and  ill  reported  by  the  secretary. 

t  My  lords  have  suspicions  of  leaning  toward  the  principles — no  less  than 
the  taste — of  Holbein  ;  and  of  meaning  some  mischief. 

f  He  instantly  feels  the  drift  of  this  last  question,  and  that  it  must  not  be 
passed  lightly.  Asks  leave  to  speak — (usually  no  license  but  of  direct  answer 
being  given). 

§  On  the  right.  One  has  got  all  the  eating  and  drinking  to  himself,  however, 
as  far  as  I  can  see. 

1  Alas,  everything  is  for  ornament — if  you  would  own  it,  Master  Paul ! 


376  APPENDIX. 

Q.  What  is  St.  Peter  doing,  who  is  the  first  ?  * * * § 

A.  He  is  cutting  up  a  lamb,  to  send  to  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

Q.  What  is  he  doing,  who  is  next  to  him  ? 

A.  He  is  holding  a  plate  to  receive  what  St.  Peter  will  give  him. 

Q.  Tell  us  what  he  is  doing,  who  is  next  to  this  last  ? 

A.  He  is  using  a  fork  as  a  toothpick,  f 

Q.  Who  do  you  really  think  were  present  at  that  supper  ? 

A.  I  believe  Christ  and  His  apostles  were  present ;  but  in  the  fore* 
ground  of  the  picture  I  have  placed  figures  for  ornament,  of  my  own  in¬ 
vention. 

Q.  Were  you  commissioned  by  any  person  to  paint  Germans,  and  buf¬ 
foons,  and  such  like  things  in  this  picture  ? 

A.  No,  my  lord  ;  my  commission  was  to  ornament  the  picture  as  I 
judged  best,  which,  being  large,  requires  many  figures,  as  it  appears  to 
me. 

Q.  Are  the  ornaments  that  the  painter  is  in  the  habit  of  introducing 
in  his  frescoes  and  pictures  suited  and  fitting  to  the  subject  and  to  the 
principal  persons  represented,  or  does  he  really  paint  such  as  strike  his 
own  fancy  without  exercising  his  judgment  or  his  discretion  ?  % 

A.  I  design  my  pictures  with  all  due  consideration  as  to  what  is  fit¬ 
ting,  and  to  the  best  of  my  judgment. 

Q.  Does  it  appear  to  you  fitting  that  at  our  Lord’s  last  supper  §  you 
should  paint  buffoons,  drunkards,  Germans,  |  dwarfs,  and  similar  inde¬ 
cencies  ? 

A.  No,  my  lord. 

Q.  Why,  then,  have  you  painted  them  ? 

A.  I  have  done  it  because  I  supposed  that  these  were  not  in  the  place 
where  the  supper  was  served. 

Q.  Are  you  not  aware  that  in  Germany,^-  and  in  other  places  infected 
with  heresy,  they  are  in  the  habit  of  painting  pictures  full  of  scurrility 
for  the  purpose  of  ridiculing  and  degrading  the  Holy  Church,  and  thus 
teaching  false  doctrines  to  the  ignorant  and  foolish  ? 

A.  Yes,  my  lord,  it  is  bad  ;  but  I  return  to  what  I  said  before  ;  I 
thought  myself  obliged  to  do  as  others — my  predecessors — had  done 
before  me. 

Q.  And  have  your  predecessors,  then,  done  such  things  ? 

A.  Michael-Angelo,  in  the  Papal  Chapel  in  Rome,  has  painted  our 


*  Very  curious  that  no  question  is  asked  as  to  what  Christ  Himself  is  doing. 
One  would  have  greatly  desired  Veronese’s  answer. 

t  Scarcely  seen,  between  the  two  pillars.  I  must  needs  admit  that  Raphael 
would  have  invented  some  more  dignifiedly  apostolic  action. 

J  Admirably  put,  my  lord. 

§  Not  meaning  the  Cena,  of  course  ;  but  what  Veronese  also  meant. 

||  and  The  gist  of  the  business,  at  last. 


APPENDIX . 


377 


Lord  Jesus  Christ,  His  mother,  St.  John,  and  St.  Peter,  and  all  the 
Court  of  Heaven,  from  the  Virgin  Mary  downward,  all  naked,  and  in 
various  attitudes,  with  little  reverence. 

Q.  Do  you  not  know  that  in  a  painting  like  the  Last  Judgment,  where 
drapery  is  not  supposed,  dresses  are  not  required,  and  that  disembodied 
spirits  only  are  represented  ;  but  there  are  neither  buffoons,  nor  dogs, 
nor  armor,  nor  any  other  absurdity  ?  And  does  it  not  appear  to  you 
that  neither  by  this  nor  any  other  example  you  have  done  right  in 
painting  the  picture  in  this  manner,  and  that  it  can  be  proved  right  and 
decent  ? 

A.  Illustrious  Lord,  I  do  not  defend  it ;  but  I  thought  I  was  doing 
right.  I  had  not  considered  all  these  things,  never  intending  to  com¬ 
mit  any  impropriety  ;  the  more  so  as  figures  of  buffoons  are  not  supposed 
to  be  in  the  same  place  where  our  Lord  is. 

Which  examination  ended,  my  lords  decreed  that  the  above-named 
Master  Paul  should  be  bound  to  correct  and  amend  the  picture  which 
had  been  under  question,  within  three  months,  at  his  own  expense, 
under  penalties  to  be  imposed  by  the  Sacred  Tribunal.” 

This  sentence,  however  severe  in  terms,  was  merely  a  matter  of  form. 
The  examiners  were  satisfied  there  was  no  malice  prepense  in  their 
fanciful  Paul :  and  troubled  neither  him  nor  themselves  farther.  He 
did  not  so  much  as  efface  the  inculpated  dog  ;  and  the  only  correction 
or  amendment  he  made,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  was  the  addition  of  the  in¬ 
scription,  which  marked  the  picture  for  the  feast  of  Levi. 


